I dreamt about a tranquil Sunday drive
|
A sensory lullaby
|
We trade the comics, cartoons, and magazines
|
For pistons and gasoline
|
|
We see the road from the bedside
|
Parked under the sunshine
|
We feel the warmth of the engine so we climb inside
|
And take it to the motorway
|
|
Watch the clouds turn into faces it's fun to play
|
Shift the gears for years and age a single day
|
Until we spill onto Russian Hill
|
|
Past cathedrals filled with God's favorite guests
|
Dirty hands feel clean when dressed in their Sunday best
|
Treeline village oh so heavenly
|
Cross a bridge of gold to landscapes of juniper
|
|
Only Eden is for millionaires
|
|
Watch the clouds turn into faces its fun to play
|
Shift the gears for years and age a single day
|
Until we spill onto Russian Hill
|
|
I'm pulling through the last stoplight
|
We head home past the shoreline
|
And through the rear view mirror it all melts away
|
'Til we're helpless
|
|
Watch the clouds turn into faces its fun to play
|
(We're hopeless)
|
We shift the gears for years and age a single day
|
(It fades away)
|
For like curtains close this sunset matinee
|
A dream fulfilled on Russian Hill
|
|
-----------------
|
Russian Hill
|
Jellyfish |