Old New York may have Dame Liberty, standing in its well-worn harbor,
Sent from France, with torch aloft, in sun or drizzle.
But she doesn’t even rate against the gal who guards our Gate,
Fact is, next to the wondrous bridge, she has no sizzle.
Sure, every city has its high points, making each a special place:
Things like arches, needles, casinos open late.
But there’s no place else on earth with a span that knows its worth
Like San Francisco’s bridge that hugs the Golden Gate.
Built in 1937, with a birthday that belies
Her ruddy looks that time has hardly dimmed a smidge,
She’s been immortalized in scansion, every cable, every stanchion,
And I’ll bet you ten She’s a magnet on your fridge.
Every morning She’s so different with Her moods that change quite fast,
Swathed in mists, or bright as brilliant, shiny copper;
She’s the Grand Dame of the bay; all the boats just bow Her way,
Topped in feathery fog, She’s a regular Hedda Hopper.
Early dawn, my dogs on leashes, there She is, oh so capricious,
Shawled in moisture, laced with lots of flying pigeons,
Gulls, and terns, and many a hawk, I just stand right there and gawk,
Till I shout top of my lungs, “Hello, Ms. Bridge!”
You are gorgeous, you are golden!
And like heroines of olden
Days, You thrill me so, You make me feel alive!
I’m so glad I live nearby — best of friends now, You and I —
So, I want to wish You a happy 75!
