 Somewhere high in the desert near a curtain of a blue,
St. Anne's skirts are billowing
But down here in the city of the lime-lights,
The fans of Santa Ana are witherin'.
And you can't deny that living is easy,
If you never look behind the scenery.
It's showtime for dry climes,
And Bedlam is dreamin' of rain.
When the hills of Los Angeles are burnin',
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind.
So many lives on the breeze,
Even the stars are ill at ease.
And Los Angeles is burnin'.
This is not a test,
Of the emergency broadcast system,
When Malibu fires and radio towers,
Conspire to dance again.
And I cannot believe the media Mecca,
They're only trying to peddle reality, catch it on prime time, story at nine.
The whole world is goin' insane.
When the hills of Los Angeles are burnin',
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 burnin'.
A placard reads,
The end of days,
Jacaranda bows are bending in the haze
More a question than a curse,
How could hell be any worse?
The flames are stunnin',
The cameras runnin',
So take warnin'.
When the hills of Los Angeles are burnin',
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 burnin'.
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