Up a San Francisco Hill

Up a San Francisco hill,
There are hippies puffing,
Teaching kids how to roll,
Up one sans le bowl.

Up a San Francisco hill,
There’s a poet who dreams,
Of a world bathed in love,
Under starlight streams.
There’s a poet who sleeps,
While the sidewalks hum beats,
From a busker’s guitar,
To the lovers they greet.

[Chorus]
And oh, they’ll laugh, they’ll dance,
To the tambourine’s trance.
With their hands in the air,
Flowers tangled in their hair.

Up a San Francisco hill,
There's a painter who sighs,
Dipping brushes in sunsets,
Under tie-dyed skies.
And the sweet scent of dreams,
Mixed with jasmine and sage,
Whirls like clouds in the park,
Where the old poets age.

And they drink, and they sing,
To the moon on the wing.
"Peace and love for us all,"
The rallying call.

[Chorus]
And oh, they’ll laugh, they’ll chant,
With the joy that they grant.
Under eucalyptus trees,
In the city of the free.

Up a San Francisco hill,
There’s a dancer who spins,
With the grace of the wind,
And the freedom within.
As the bongo drums pound,
She sways to the sound,
And her movements declare,
"Every soul is profound."

Up a San Francisco hill,
The sun starts to glow,
And the hippies all rise,
With the city below.
They'll march hand in hand,
Through the morning's sweet chill,
Chasing dreams, planting seeds,
Up a San Francisco hill.