Berkeley
It’s winter in New York City.
But your hot tub is always warm.
Three thousand miles away in California.
You’re smoking on the deck
In the eucalyptus air.
And the man you’ll come to love is standing there.
It’s not kismet.
It’s not destiny.
And this place ain’t no Shangri-La.
But it’s a misty-eyed god who’d dream of sequoia trees.
There’s something about Berkeley.
Dating back to days spent in Codornices.
Clamor uphill and slide back down.
Two childhoods entwined in California.
He’s playing hide and seek (Come out, come out)
And sees a small girl on a swing. (Wherever you are.)
And neither one suspects a thing. (Ready or not)
‘Cause it’s not kismet.
It’s not destiny.
And this place ain’t no Shangri-La.
But it’s a misty-eyed god who’d dream of sequoia trees.
There’s something about Berkeley.
The way the sun beats down in the afternoon
The way the fog drenches the bay.
And the way you just keep on circling back.
Like you just can’t stay away.
I spent nine years in New York City,
Writing words down and telling tales,
Before I saw the coast of California.
Before I saw the Golden Gate
And the settings for the tales you’ll tell.
And now I’m under Berkeley’s spell.
It’s not kismet.
It’s not destiny.
And this place ain’t no Shangri-La.
But it’s a misty-eyed god who’d dream of sequoia trees.
There’s something about Berkeley.
And I don’t believe in fate, but sure as I can breathe I can see
There’s something about Berkeley.
