That new bridge in the East is sleek and lowly-slung;
she shimmers ghostly against blue sky,
while Ole West, high-tense, from rock to rock is hung;
they had to sling them cables high.
Out where flat marshes meet Atlantic’s swellin’ swale
they’ve stretched a spindly span, ascending high with whitish wispy grace.
But over on California crags where Pacific currents hail
they had strung an iron span of steel-tensed strength in perilous golden space.
Here’s one bridge, laid-back and sleek, steeped in simple Southern style;
t’was formed up in 21st-century streamlined gray concrete;
the other was stretched in cabled steel–in blood-red iron by bloodied rank and file,
strung out in 1930’s grit as some gargantuan steel-nerv’d feat.
When America swoons in futures past and some souls live to tell the tale,
we’ll speak stories of bridges, of metallic spans that tested men’s mortal fate.
Perhaps they’ll mention Charleston’s pride–that span in whitish shade of pale,
but the king of steel-strung cabled bridgedom is that big red one at Golden Gate.