| Somewhere high in the desert near a curtain of blue
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| Saint Ann’s skirts are billowing
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| But down here in the city of limelights
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| The fans of Santa Ana are withering
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| And you can’t deny the living is easy
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| If you never look behind the scenery
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| It’s showtime for dry climes
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| And Bedlam is dreaming of rain
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| When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
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| Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
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| So many lives are on the breeze
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| Even the stars are ill at ease
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| And Los Angeles is burning
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| This is not a test
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| Of the emergency broadcast system
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| When Malibu fires and radio towers
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| Conspire to dance again
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| And I cannot believe the media Mecca
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| They’re only trying to peddle reality, catch it on
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| Primetime, story at nine
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| The whole world is going insane
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| When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
|
| Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
|
| So many lives are on the breeze
|
| Even the stars are ill at ease
|
| And Los Angeles is burning
|
| A placard reads the end of days
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| Jacaranda boughs are bending in the haze
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| More a question than a curse
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| How could hell be any worse?
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| The flames are starting
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| The camera’s running
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| So take warning
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| When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
|
| Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
|
| So many lives are on the breeze
|
| Even the stars are ill at ease
|
| And Los Angeles is burning |