(Eric Burdon)

Strobe lights beam create dreams
walls move minds to do
on a warm San Francisco night
old child young child feel alright
on a warm San Francisco night
angels sing leather wings
jeans of blue Harley Davisons too
on a warm San Francisco night
old angels young angels feel alright
on a warm San Francisco night.

I wasn't born there perhaps I'll die there
there's no place left to go, San Francisco.

Cop's face is filled with hate
heavens above he's on a street called love
when will they even learn
old cop young cop feel alright
on a warm San Francisco night
the children are cool
they don't raise fools
it's an american dream
includes indians too

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