The old bridge is made of iron,
but it's as grand as Golden Gate
I stood at the bar and drank my beer,
and a stranger caught my eye
He spoke of endless long highways,
big old trucks and pretty girls
Why don't you break on out,
And my friend has a feeling,
The old bridge is made of iron
But it's as grand as Golden Gate
It's colors fade and unfallen
But the old girl's looking great
The wind's blowing down her walkway
When I walk through to reach the house
She don't stand in San Francisco
The stranger stared at me,
The old bridge is made of iron
But it's as grand as Golden Gate
The colors fading and falling
But the old girl's looking great
The wind's blowing down the walkway
When I walk through to reach the house
She don't stand in San Francisco
And may I say I'm glad somehow
in east and west road -bound.
The North Pole down to Istanbul,
in the snow and sand and stone.
For years and years I've searched,
is a feeling encountered in my eyes.
The old rich is made of iron
But it's as grand as Golden Gate
It's colors fading and falling
But the old girl's looking great
The wind's blowing down her walkway
Then I walk through to reach the house
She don't stand in San Francisco
An d may I say I'm glad somehow
