Текст песни Decemberists - Los Angeles, I'm Yours

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There is a city by the sea, a gentle com - pa - ny, 
I don't suppose you want to

And as it tells its sorry tale, in harrowing detail 
Its hollowness will haunt you

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Its streets and boulevards,         orphans and oligarchs it hears
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A plaintive melody,      truncated symphony
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An ocean's garbled vomit on the   shore, 
Los Angeles, I'm yours

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Oh ladies pleasant and demure, sallow-cheeked and sure 
I can see your undies
And all the boys you drag about, an empty fallow fount 
From Saturdays to Mondays 
You hill and valley crowd, hanging your trousers down at heel 
This is the realest thing, as ancient choirs sing 
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above
Los Angeles my love

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                         . . . (solos)

  Oh what a rush of ripe