| Well, I live on a ridgetop
|
| And, Lord knows, I like it just fine
|
| Where it’s windy and foggy
|
| And quiet most all the time
|
| Yeah, my lawn is pine needles
|
| And my driveway is old funky dirt
|
| And my front pathway markers
|
| Are pieces of granite and chert
|
| Now, my taxes are high
|
| But I don’t believe it’s a sin
|
| I’ve got hundred foot pine trees
|
| That just love to dance in the wind
|
| And a yard full of bushes
|
| That turn into pie in July
|
| Between blue jays and hoot owls
|
| I’ve got twenty-four hour singing sky
|
| Now, when I built my house
|
| I cut six trees to clear out the land
|
| But there’s thirty or more left
|
| And you know that they’re gonna stand
|
| It’s a squirrel sanctuary
|
| They think this woods is their home
|
| And as long as I’m here
|
| I’ll make sure people leave us all alone
|
| Yes, the hill that I live on is steep
|
| And the road’s full of ruts
|
| And the people who live in the flatlands
|
| Think we folks are nuts
|
| But the ruts in my road and the curves
|
| Keep the tourists at bay
|
| And it’s lonesome and peaceful
|
| And you know I like it that way
|
| Now, I work in the city
|
| I think my job is a gas
|
| And I know it’s good for me
|
| To travel and get off my a**
|
| But the nervous parts of each trip
|
| Is the Golden Gate Bridge
|
| And the road like a snake
|
| That will lead me back home to my ridge
|
| Ah, I live on a ridgetop
|
| Yes, I live on a ridgetop
|
| And I like it
|
| And I like it. |