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DOWN BY THE RIVER
Four Sonnets About the Ravages of Pepsi's Waterfront Village
Posted - 6/20/03 3:16 PM PST
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What's in a name? That which we call a Rose
By any other name would smell as foul
It invades the town with a bag o' woes
Blocking the Parkway to unleash its bowels
A stomach full o' speed n' carnival rides
Draws ships; destroyers n' Man of Wars
The sensible citizen runs n' hides
From a city ravaged by sailors n' whores
Two weeks o' Laffy Taffy-flavored vomit
Two weeks o' fast gunfire no one explains
Two tons o' professional strength Comet
Could not wash away these neon stains
June nights of decadence, brawls and pillage
These the pangs o' Waterfront Village
From Gresham, Hillsboro, Tualatin
From Foster Road, foul abodes, in busloads
Fun hungry, stinking o' Hood River gin
Throwing cash; as plastic gun reloads
Ten dollar bumper car, ten buck spins
Rides insane, more expensive than cocaine
Plastic clowns. Games o' chance. No one wins
Hard to hold a ball in the cold June rain
After hours, the low riders invade
Beaverton teens flashing oversized pants
The zit-encrusted, Jay Z cavalcades
The spawn of a thousand LA transplants
They, members o' a glass-eyed assemblage
They the victims o' Waterfront Village
To the library, into the archive
Flip through the pages, see the history
O' Pepsi's twisted annual hell hive
Wounds, scars, fights, drunkenness n' mystery
A bullet hits a man, leaving the Civic
Years ago, four blocks it blows, into skull
A million, billion cops on bikes so slick
Can't render random acts o' blindness null
Organizers call this family fun
Teen pregnancy at best, murder at worst
Thou trade a ticket for food donation
All this chaos but thou do not sell bratwurst
Oktoberfest drenched in sea men spillage
Await those who visit Waterfront Village
Thou who dost read these meter-less sonnets
Notes those not slapped with a mean tongue lashing
Thou who live the carnival n' flaunt it
Yes, these rhymes lack the ol' carnie bashing
Oh, toothless barkers who scream, "Step right up"
And gyp the multitudes with plastic rings
Thou that still laugh at Budweiser's "whassup"
These masses they cheat with mirrors n' strings
No scorn n' bile, let's drink to the carnie
Never rises with the dawn, never does sleep
Full of piss n' wind, blithe, strife n' blarney
Last of the conmen, flocker of the sheep
Employees o' a dying U-S-Age
Thou art the lords of Waterfront Village
Next time: The Tale of the Retarded Puppy.
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