He told me not to leave my heart in San Francisco.
I told him
My heart wasn't mine to leave.
But,
The cold wind
Was already blowing in off the bay,
And it chilled him to the bone.

So when he slipped my heart
Back into my pocket,
I put it on my sleeve to get some sun.
And it painted pretty pictures
Of the place it first began to beat.

There's no denying,
From the beginning and,
In the end,
My heart always belonged to California.