I was ridin' down that highway, silver Harley by my side, when I thought I saw my lady. She was headin' for the Berkeley hill, pistol on her hip in case she needed a thrill. I don't believe it, don't believe a word. I don't believe it, don't believe a word. I said, come on with me, baby, don't you want to ride with me? She put her hand into her bag now, pulled out a half pint of red-eye sauce; sneakin' 'round the corner drinkin' whiskey from a jar. I don't believe it, don't believe a word. I don't believe it, don't believe a word

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