Songtexte: Decemberists. Her Majesty. Los Angeles, I'm Yours.

There is a city by the sea, a gentle company
I don't suppose you want to
And as it tells its sorry tale in harrowing detail
Its hollowness will haunt you

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

Old ladies pleasant and demure, sallow cheeked and sure
I can see your undies
And all the boys you drag about an empty fellow found
From Saturdays to Mondays

You hill and valley crowd, hanging your trousers down at here
This is the realest thing, as ancient choirs sing
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel about
Los Angeles, my love

Oh, what a rush of ripe elan, languor on divans
Dallyiant and dainty
But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine, the dollor and decay
It only makes me cranky

A great calamity, ditch of inequity it's here
How I abhor this place, its sweet and bitter taste
Has left me wretched retching on all fours
Los Angeles, I'm yours
Los Angeles, I'm yours
Los Angeles, I'm yours