TOURISTS
From Fisherman’s Wharf to the Bridge, Golden Gate,
To Chinatown, Lombard Street, Asbury and Haight,
Tourists complain that the fog is too cold
While million-dollar houses wait to be sold.
They zip ‘round in GoCars, some rent the bikes.
Some lean in on Segways, some go for hikes.
Families like cable cars and Madame Tousaud’s;
Poets like City Lights. There they read odes
By Beatniks, while Hippies revisit the grounds
Where they dropped LSD and listened to sounds
Of Creedence Clearwater and the Dead, meaning Grateful.
But all tourists thrill at ’06 and the fateful
Day when the city came tumbling down.
They imagine the Gold Rush, that build up the town,
And see themselves up in a manse on Nob Hill,
Then retire after dining on steak at John’s Grill.
But while buffalo sleep in Golden Gate Park,
Some tourists do dangerous things after dark.
They prowl the Castro, score drugs in the Mission,
Some meet with radicals plotting sedition.
For tourists the city’s a park with a theme.
Taking photos of landmarks, they’re lost in a dream.
They’re never the people who surf Ocean Beach
Though they dine at the Cliff house just within reach.
Have they heard of Excelsior, Richmond or Sunset?
Do their tour busses drive through the streets Alphabet
Where families live and kids go to school?
No, they don’t pass Land’s End and the Sutro Baths pool.
From Fisherman’s Wharf to the Bridge, Golden Gate,
To Chinatown, Lombard Street, Asbury and Haight,
Tourists complain that the fog is too cold
While million-dollar houses wait to be sold.