Drunk in the lost city,
lost in the vase beauty of the angels
drunk, smoking on park benches.
Freaks, trannys, whores and pimps,
looking at me;
a one of a kind.
No one has ever seen me on the streets of L.A.,
beacause I am a one of a kind,
a gentleman, a drunken buffoon.
I hurl myself at the bars,
and the whores look at me and smile,
and I wave them over, and they come.
40 bucks for a night a good fun,
a night of exotic pleasure,
in the heart of the sleeping angels.
two in the morning,
police stop me, sleeping on a park bench.
Warm always warm,
the city that is lost.
A city known as the city of angels,
yet how many devils I have counted.
How much evil I have seen,
how much temptation rules in the gutters.
Walking drunk on madness,
in this dirty city,
as I look for a bar before last call.
I find one,
I go in,
order a beer.
I drink with pleasure
I start to write,
I light a cigarette and smoke.
A grey cloud forms around me,
"Last call for alcohol," the barkeep shouts.
I raise my hand, he comes over.
"What will yah have?" he asks,
"Another beer and my check."
On the house, free drinks, on the house.
After a night in the city of angels,
I find myself a cosy park bench,
and fall asleep, dreaming of the angels I had never seen.