O, Frisco was a strumpet
With wind-blown locks astray,
Calling wild hearts to her
From half the world away,

Dancing by the waterfront,
Gold nuggets in both hands,
Luring with her painted lips
Men from distant lands.

San Francisco is a woman,
Mature but lovely still,
Smiling gracious welcome
To her mansion on the hill.

(But sometimes, in the evenings
When the fog comes from the sea,
The woman's laughter holds the lilt
Of the wench she used to be.)