| Wide awake in San Diego
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| Smallest root shrinking dry
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| The fish are swimming closer inside Lake Marena
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| Still get no rain from the sky
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| Men were firing cannons
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| Hoping smoke might tear an angel’s eyes
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| Heard the stories of shooting arrows
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| Tearin' open the clouds
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| But indians shoot the best, man
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| The indians they don’t like us, much
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| Hatfield
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| You made rain for L.A.
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| We’ve got ten grand
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| For you to go cook us some rain
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| Science from the cooking pot mixing up with the air
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| Feeling thunder
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| Nights since they have started
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| Now the clouds won’t stay apart
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| A little California voodoo
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| Killed Hatfield and his brother
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| Now the horses won’t race where the town’s turned to mud
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| Streams and rivers are growing
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| And my boots are filling up
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| Letters from back this way (?)
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| Look at them smiling, cooking and smiling
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| Hatfield
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| Made rain for L.A.
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| Well, «Hot damn»,
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| People swear with one walk in this rain
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| Families on porches
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| The children are smiling
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| The owners are mad, owners are crying
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| Still the eyes of the children, wide open
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| Wide, wide
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| Well, the blue light is rolling in between the clouds
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| Feeling of wonder
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| Some water drying up, some sinking down |