When you step off of the train in San Francisco,
you are faced with daunting choices and decisions:
do you rush to Russian Hills, go downtown for MOMA thrills,
or cruise out to the funky ethnic Mission?
And those caffees in the North Beach, all so Euro—
oh, they call to you with roasted madder fruit.
And within easy reach are the sands of Baker Beach,
where you wouldn’t even need a bathing suit.
You can people-watch the whole day in the Castro,
where the custom is a costume made of leather.
Or the lovers of late who go wallow in the Haight
where the brains are all as foggy as the weather.
Skip the crass commercialism of the Warf, oh!
but not Chinatown’s cheap cow-meined chicken beaks.
You’ll spend more than your fair share if you shop at Union square
and breathe hardest if hike up to Twin Peaks.
But don't ever go off hunting at the Point, no.
You can also take away the Western Add.
Your stakes may be purloined in the dicey Tenderloin,
For the projects all house prospects going bad.
Still, when you come back home from San Francisco,
snoozing in your comfy suburbs, flat and bland,
you might find yourself hoping that one day you'll be coping
as a denizen of manic San Fran Land.