San Fernando

A handsome hacienda down San Fernando way, Whose curled sunburned tiles once gleamed from Apollo’s rays Was home to gentle farmers who worked their crops each day; And slept in peace while brown night hawks would flirt and play. Furrowed flowing lines full of fruits and crops, row on row By workers in torn jeans, with strong hands, made to grow; Clearing weeds, harvesting as soon as they were able; To fill up trucks to haul crops for waiting tables. Big wheels rolled progress in bringing asphalt and cement. Bold builders paid out cash to further their intent To turn land beyond agricultural revisions And erect malls, high rises and subdivisions. The nurturing life of dirty hands in days of yore Left for bountiful crops of Valley Girls galore.