| She is a weaver
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| Through her hands the bright thread travels
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| Blue green water, willows weeping, silver stars
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| She sings and sighs as the shuttle flies
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| Through the yarn like a Kerry dancer
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| Pink and purple velvet red for a lover’s bed
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| Living north of San Francisco
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| With a man who built his house alone
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| Living peaceful in the country
|
| The lights of the golden gate will lead her home
|
| She is a spinner
|
| In her hands the wooden wheel turns the wool around
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| Then around again
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| A gypsy from Bolinas
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| Sits and plays the mandolin
|
| Faces smile in the firelight of a foggy night
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| Living north of San Francisco
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| Sometimes it’s nice to be alone
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| She says, it’s peaceful where she is living
|
| The lights of the golden gate will lead her home
|
| You can see the bridges of the city
|
| Hanging in the air by steel and stone
|
| She says, it’s peaceful where she’s living
|
| The lights of the golden gate will lead her home
|
| She is a weaver
|
| Through her hand the bright thread travels
|
| Blue green water, willows weeping, silver stars
|
| She is my sister
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| The baby born when I was older
|
| Her hands are light, her hair is bright as the summer sun
|
| Living north of San Francisco
|
| Sometimes it’s nice to be alone
|
| She says, it’s peaceful in the country
|
| The lights of the golden gate will lead her home
|
| The lights of the golden gate will lead her home |