Interpret:

Distillers, The

Album:

Sing Sing Death House

It's going down tonight in this town,
'cause they stare and growl, they all stare and growl.
I take a scar every time I cry,
'cause it ain’t my style, no, it ain’t my style.
Going down to the gravel, head to the barrel,
take this life and end this struggle.
Los Angeles, come scam me please.


Emptiness never sleeps at Clifton’s, 6 a.m,
with your bag lady friend and your mind descending.
Stripped of the right to be a human in control,
it's warmer in hell so down we go.


They say this is the city,
the city of angels.
All I see is dead wings.


They say this is the city,
the city of angels.
All I see is dead wings.


It’s a ghost town, rabid underworld,
dionysian night, vitriolic twilight.
A mirage comes up, it never ends,
once you get born you’re never the same.
Left behind, erased from time,
ain't no decency in being boxed up alive.
Look around, ain't no R.I.P. signs here,
we don't rest in peace, we just disappear.


So here we are, Los Angeles,
no angels singing in your valley of unease.
I watch the sun roll down the pacific,
over hookered sunset strip.


They say this is the city,
the city of angels.
All I see is dead wings.


They say this is the city,
the city of angels.
All I see is dead wings.


There's a black moon tonight,
shining down on the western neon lights.


They say this is the city,
the city of angels.
All I see is nothing