It's a little song about Los Angeles, home of Nixon and Manson. The angels are lost in the city of stars, wise men are down on their knees. The fruit man of freeway will sell you his carves when he's sure that you can't find the keys. And the ladies on Magdalene Lane all worship the sun and the sand. And the migrants who come can't complain, for this is their promised land. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. La, la, la, la, la, la, la. MGM Studios can't make the nut, they're auctioning Dorothy's shoes. The able is gone, the good witch is a slut, and I've got the parking lot blues. The wizard brought Benzedrine smiles, and he never let Dorothy doze. She died as she walked down the aisle, and all that remains is her clothes. Over the rainbow a Kansas tornado can twist up a little girl's head. And Amazon relief and the Tin Man's a thief, even the wizard can't wake the dead. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. La, la, la, la, la, la, la. The prophet has come to this kingdom of light, but there's no one to listen or learn. And the Savior performs for the prophet's delight, while dissenters are banished or burned. And the heretics beg to be heard, but the Savior's on tour for the weak. Salvation is found in his word, if only he'd learn how to speak. And Lincoln is laughing with Amos and Andy concerning the great civil war. And Paul Revere sleeps with the worst looking creeps, while revolution's knocking at his door. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. La, la, la, la, la, la, la. Magdalene Lane is the red light domain where everyone's soul is for sale. A piece of your heart will do for a start, you can send us the rest in the mail. For we have our own families to feed, and we can't let them starve just for you. But we'd rather not watch while you bleed. So come back in an hour when you're through, it's just another city full of sorrow. It makes no difference why I came, and I only know I'm leaving here tomorrow. And only the motel man knows my name. *