Drunk In the City of Angels
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.
Drunk walking,
two in the morning,
police stop me, sleeping on a park bench.
Warm always warm,
never cold,
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.
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