| 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, it's 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, it's 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 |
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