L.A. Dark

Driving right in the left lane, he's sorry. Midnight in L.A., it's starry. He's crying;
He'll never be famous. They told him he'll never take off, but now he's flying -
Down Mulholland Drive, hands off the wheel, into street lights and ditches -
Leaving behind a trail of skid marks and fumes, and dead bitches...
But he's on the news. That's all it takes, being desperate enough, and good booze -
That, and the feeling like you ain't got nothing to lose, and too many bad nights.
So he's headed out to knock over some street lights, and deliver some Last Rites.
L.A. dark.