All that gold And all that jazz All that glitters And all that cold Sadness of Frittered away Days And summer haze Disappearing Over the event Horizon Of San Francisco Bay. All that gold And all that waste Of human treasure Failing to get A taste of life. Having and holding Onto a world gone Unfeeling Senses left Reeling In the heat And the smog And the found And the lost Stolen hope! At such a cost, In this City Of Have too much And have not a lot. All that's buried And all that's dug up All that is promised Down in the scrum And the muck, All that is dirty And all that's been Cleaned All that shines yet Is not allowed to Truly gleam. All that richness And all that power All that suffering And longing for A long cold mind shower All that manna And all that crack All that buzzes Down in some North Beach cocktail shack All that was and All that is Lays inert And makes It's Final Wish.
All that gold is going to waste on the streets of San Francisco. Once it was buried under the hills, now it is dying down Van Ness and Franklin. It is suffering on Geary. It is scrabbling down in the gutters of O’Farrell and Turk, trying to scrape an existence from those dirty streets whose treasures are buried under shopping carts full of broken dreams and other people’s sins. All that glitters is not gold. All that is gold is not allowed to glitter. The day kept climbing and climbing. 94 Degrees and rising. All that gold is too much to take.