San Pedro

Gentrifier’s pliers pull the heart from the old tart Though a Navy Commander warns crew not to wander Where sailors drank and brawled till ships’ horns called By-the-hour beds and Shanghai Red’s demolished so Pedro could be polished Now L.A. gangs sell the sins, against their guns no patron wins Tarp homes on the bluff keep it rough, still developers dream and cream Hills and ocean make a heady potion but fog dispels the notion That a fat purse trumps a curse; ghosts abound, the lost are never found