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The nominated councillors had a joke |
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to build the city's foundations on smoke |
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And they thought their idea so funny |
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that their laughter it turned into a choke |
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They started on the blueprints right away |
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tracing out the cul-de-sacs in spades |
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They went to sleep not dreaming |
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not dreaming that they never would awake |
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And all the Spanish Mission houses slide into the sea |
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The pool cleaner he cleans the pool with its owner's SUV |
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The shadow of the mountain it comes creeping across the sea |
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And no-one would believe you if you said this is how it would be |
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Up in Laurel Canyon angels sing |
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while sweet Gene Autry's dealing cards to Sting |
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He's so flat he went out and traded |
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Fifty dollars for his wedding ring |
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And all the sullen singers they pull down on their fringe |
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The French doors start to buckle and they let the waters in |
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You know that these hills were built for people to be free |
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And no-one would believe you if you said this is how it would be |
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The gutters become torrents and run down the graceful streets |
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Like a revolutionary force stamping its foamy feet |
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The elements of nature they are turned and reversed |
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Land is sea, and air is land, and fire its inverse |
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All the marble monuments they return to the sea |
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And no-one would believe you if you said this is how it would be |