|
Looking back, to San Francisco |
|
Wearing my blue Chinese dress |
|
A yellow jacket with padded shoulders |
|
Smoking Sobranie cigarettes |
|
Four o'clock and the fog comes in |
|
We all remember the sea |
|
For several seconds our sins are forgiven |
|
Mine against you, yours against me |
|
Don't wait for me and don't be sorry |
|
Forget all the letters we wrote |
|
Leave to the foghorns our lonesome story |
|
Let them sustain the heavy note |
|
We order another margarita |
|
Sipping it slow by the window |
|
Nobody needs an Indian teacher |
|
All they need is San Francisco |
|
For we are driving most carefully home |
|
Down roads that are floating and veiled |
|
The Golden Gate, |
|
It's still gold, |
|
It's still great |
|
Nobody's drunk |
|
Nothing has failed |
