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Somewhere high in the desert near a curtain of a blue |
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St. Anne's skirts are billowing |
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But down here in the city of limelights |
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The fans of Santa Anna are withering |
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And you can't deny that 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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Where 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 |
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Catch it on prime time, 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 |
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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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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 stunning |
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The cameras running |
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So take warning |
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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 |