I saw a Berkeley woman sitting in her rocking chair,
A dulcimer in her lap, a feather in her hair.
Her breasts swayed freely with the rhythm of the rocking chair
She was sittin' and strummin' and swayin', her cheeks were red, I declare.
Twas hard to believe what my eyes showed me there, and
In my mind I was swayin' with the woman in the rocking chair,
But the lady I was living with was standing right by my side,
She saw my stare and she saw my hunger, and Lord, it made her cry.
So with anger on her face and hurt in her eyes,
She slapped me and she clawed me, she screamed and she cried:
"Oh, you don't give me near all the lovin' that you should,
Yet you're ready to go and lay with her; you're just no damn good."
Well, I guess she's probably right, guess I'm probably wrong.
I guess she's not too far away, she hasn't been gone very long.
And I guess we could get together, and try this one more time,
But I know the wander-lust would come again; she'd only wind up cryin'.
So now you heard my story, as plain as the light of day.
It's hard to feel guilty for loving the ladies, is all I got to say.
Except a woman is the sweetest fruit that God ever put on the vine,
And I'd no more love just one kind of woman than drink only one kind of wine.