Yes, I have walked in California, And the rivers there are blue and white. Thunderclouds of grapes hang on the mountains. Bears in the meadows pitch and fight. (_Limber, double-jointed lords of fate, Proud native sons of the Golden Gate._) And flowers burst like bombs in California, Exploding on tomb and tower. And the panther-cats chase the red rabbits, Scatter their young blood every hour. And the cattle on the hills of California And the very swine in the holes Have ears of silk and velvet And tusks like long white poles. And the very swine, big hearted, Walk with pride to their doom For they feed on the sacred raisins Where the great black agates loom. Goshawfuls are Burbanked with the grizzly bears. At midnight their children come clanking up the stairs. They wriggle up the canyons, Nose into the caves, And swallow the papooses and the Indian braves. The trees climb so high the crows are dizzy Flying to their nests at the top. While the jazz-birds screech, and storm the brazen beach And the sea-stars turn flip flop. The solid Golden Gate soars up to Heaven. Perfumed cataracts are hurled From the zones of silver snow To the ripening rye below, To the land of the lemon and the nut And the biggest ocean in the world. While the Native Sons, like lords tremendous Lift up their heads with chants sublime, And the band-stands sound the trombone, the saxophone and xylophone And the whales roar in perfect tune and time. And the chanting of the whales of California I have set my heart upon. It is sometimes a play by Belasco, Sometimes a tale of Prester John. _Part II. The Chanting of the Whales_ North to the Pole, south to the Pole The whales of California wallow and roll. They dive and breed and snort and play And the sun struck feed them every day Boatloads of citrons, quinces, cherries, Of bloody strawberries, plums and beets, Hogsheads of pomegranates, vats of sweets, And the he-whales’ chant like a cyclone blares, Proclaiming the California noons So gloriously hot some days The snake is fried in the desert And the flea no longer plays. There are ten gold suns in California When all other lands have one, For the Golden Gate must have due light And persimmons be well-done. And the hot whales slosh and cool in the wash And the fume of the hollow sea. Rally and roam in the loblolly foam And whoop that their souls are free. (_Limber, double-jointed lords of fate, Proud native sons of the Golden Gate._) And they chant of the forty-niners Who sailed round the cape for their loot With guns and picks and washpans And a dagger in each boot. How the richest became the King of England, The poorest became the King of Spain, The bravest a colonel in the army, And a mean one went insane.