Texty: Strung Out. An American Paradox. Cemetery.

An electric concrete fantasy where the billboards keep on warning me,
that if I don't keep moving, moving I'll get stuck in this place, where nobody gets out alive.
The dead all came out to play in this metropoloitian decay, a cemetarty called Los Angeles.
The sun holds no regrets, the natives sway under arrest as all the stars fall from the sky.
Now we've all sold our souls, we're just waiting for the show to begin here at the edge.
What the hell we doing here, we're everywhere
but no one's here, bodies in motion, desperate motion.
The angels have all gone insane I know I'll never be the same so let it ride, we're going for a ride.
Now I watch those zombies celebrate the burning of their favorite heretics and demigods.