Good Lord, we're in San-Francisco,
Sweeping up the dusty floor,
Counting all the bottles of the whiskey
Who are we? We don't know, Lord!
One is the child of a prayer
With the dark wings from the bloody hell,
Burnt to ashes with no saver,
Living on the edge as well.
Two are the circumstantial
Angels from the dirty streets -
Red one burns ashes. Evidential
Blonde is struggling life to lead.
Lost one is the livie-new-here,
Cheating herself from day till night.
What if she will soon disappear?
What if no one holds her tight?
Money rule the sleepless city,
But not for those precious flower-sons.
Red lights and the endless pity
Follow those, who came here once.
We fly through the avenues of Frisco,
Young faces fastly passing by...
Our destinys depend on San-Francisco,
So we've got to play to be dead or live...