Dust always blowing about the town,
Except when sea—fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children told
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
 
All the dust the wind blew high
Appeared like gold in the sunset sky,
But I was one of the children told
Some of the dust was really gold.
 
Such was life in the Golden Gate:
Gold dusted all we drank and ate,
And I was one of the children told,
'We all must eat our peck of gold’.

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