The San Francisco Hills Poem
By Dennis Lange
The San Francisco Hills are, day by day,
A mystery that never goes away.
Some need a revelation so they’ll know
Why they put on the purest iv’ry show.
They daily seem to smoke as if on fire,
And wear their white robes like a virgin choir.
But on their slopes there is no leaping flame
That Smoking Mountains should become their name.
Though Twain deemed San Francisco summers cold,
No one who knows would be so wrong and bold
To say the hills, upon their heads, wear snow
So they are white and wise like old men grow.
It really is too complex to explain
The factors here in my too short refrain.
So, in the end, my simple answer’s that
On San Francisco hills sits Sandburg’s cat.
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