1.

Under the long green hair of pepper trees,

The writers and composers work the street.

Bach’s new score is crumpled in his pocket,

Dante sways his ass-cheeks to the beat.

2.

The city is named for the angels,

And its angels are easy to find.

They give off a lubricant odor,

Their eyes are mascara-lined;

At night you can see them inserting

Gold-plated diaphragms;

For breakfast they gather at poolside

Where screenwriters feed and swim.

3.

Every day, I go to earn my bread

In the exchange where lies are marketed,

Hoping my own lies will attract a bid.

4.

It’s Hell, it’s Heaven: the amount you earn

Determines if you play the harp or burn.

5.

Gold in their mountains,

Oil on their coast;

Dreaming in celluloid

Profits them most.