The legend lives on of the people gone down
when for all kinds of crimes they're arrested.
They go without fail to L.A.'s County Jail
but might not stay, the place is congested.

With a load of rough thugs, twenty-six thousand bedbugs
and about fifteen cells remaining empty.
The public defenders go off on their benders
of logic when they will defend thee.

The jail is the pride of North Hollywood's side
and once housed the cell of Charlie Manson.
But even that wacko couldn't top Mr. Jacko
who showed up with his moonwalkin' dancin'.

And in his defense came a few of his friends
such as Liz Taylor and Susan Lucci.
Acquitted he was, despite all of the buzz
from testimony of Bonaduce.

The biggest yet splash was the awful mishmash
that surrounded the trial of O.J.
But with the gloves tricked, they just couldn't convict.
So did Simpson stay put? Alas, no way.

They heard Robert Blake was a thug on the make
and he shot his young wife, swore he'd get her.
But even this guy, they did not hang him high.
'Twas a sketchy release for "Baretta."

When suppertime came, so did news six o'clock
reporters said, "Where is Phil Spector?"
At seven PM, the news folks heard from him:
His victim, he did not respect her.

To keep this jail straight is the terrible fate
of a badge-d elected official.
The media he'll tell, "You can all go to hell!"
So spoke Sheriff Edmund Fitzgerald!

Does anyone know why Miss Paris can't "go"?
She's dehydrated, shaky and wiltin'.
The poor old judge steams, and despite all her screams
she goes back to the cold graybar "Hilton"!

She's blonde and she's daft, but you know that she'll have
to stay for the whole time, feeling bitchy.
And "good behavior" is what she will deplore
and no one visits but Nicole Richie.

Some stool pigeons roll, canaries, they sing
in the walls of this wrongdoers' mansion.
And the Sheriff says, "Shucks, look at all of those trucks.
Do live in the proper dimension?"

Most inmates pray, "Lord, why can I not afford
an attorney to gain my conviction?"
As jail buildings go, it contains more than most
and the Sheriff might have a conniption.

In that musty old hall, all the convicts, they pray
that they're not caught there over a barrel.
The judge gives a sneer at each man locked up here
for the corrections of Edmund Fitzgerald!

The legend lives on in Los Angeles town
of the big house that's itchy and gloomy.
The County, it's said, makes you wish you were dead
especially when roommate says, "Do me!"