The rolling-golden-hills-of-California-scented winds Whisper "It's over" My heels are worn from wandering With heavy-hearted longing for enclosure Did you sense it like a tracker With her ear pressed to the dirt Who could hear the changes coming Subtle as a buffalo herd Was my unconscious setting beacons Too obvious to not be seen Familiar dots on the horizon Why can everyone predict my moves But me (one, two, three) The damp grey fog of San Francisco Wraps its arms around me like a lover Who will steal the hearts of women from their chest The way it robs their cheeks of color Did you sense it like a tracker With her ear pressed to the dirt Who could hear the changes coming Subtle as a buffalo herd Was my unconscious setting beacons Too obvious to not be seen Familiar dots on the horizon Why can everyone predict my moves But me From Brooklyn's brownstones first I ran away You followed me from Rhinebeck's trees I, next, did run away You followed me to California now Now, I run away Don't follow me Please, don't follow me