Russian Hill

(álbum: Spilt Milk - 1993)

I dreamt about a tranquil Sunday drive
A sensory lullaby
We trade the comics, cartoons and magazines
For pistons and gasolines

We see the road from the bedside
Parked under the sunshine
We feel the warmth of the engine so we climb inside
And take 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
Treelined villages, 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 rearview mirror it all melts away

'Til we're hopeless
(Watch the clouds turn into faces, it's fun to play)
We're hopeless
(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