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