I was born six years aft' the wake of the '92 riots,

So my Boomer parents and I moved away,

Across this great country, 'til I turned twenty;

By the time I looked back, they let it all decay.

And I wouldn't even want to live in the Palisades,

Not even if I could afford any way;

Even the stench and dark smog are now foreign,

As strange as the hordes that have left us replaced.

The rain smells like Hell, there's death in rare drizzle,

And puddles of piss linger on downtown streets.

Burn the city of Black Angel, high-desert harlots -

Lord, don't bury me here in my earthly retreat.

The Inmates and Orcs have been freed from the asylum,

To roam aimless like cattle, and stink up the air.

Thank The Tribe for ol' Prop. 47.

Don't darken my den, and expect me to care.

If I ever return, it will not be in this life.

The thorns of the jungle can have at it now.

Still, school-teachers preach 'bout the splendor of So-Cal,

Which no White Boy buys, 'less it's beaten in his brow.

O' Lord, rain Hellfire o'er Los Angeles County,

Where White black-tar junkies yet stagger and sway.

I'm sorry, dear friend, but it's too late for Saving.

Lord, send a rain, and wash the mud away.