Blackstrap Flooded The Bay State Poem by ed purchla

While it's unlikely that the claims are true,
Noses remember on a sweltering
Midday in Beantown's Poco Italia.

Mirroring that consequential day at
The Twentieth's turn, when ignoring the
Trill, the chirp, of the coal mine's canary.

'Twas Purity's Jell, painting the tank brown,
(Unlike M.M. Dodge's tale of the Dutch Boy
who thwarted a flood) that ruptured awash.

Viscous, Dark, earthy, sweet, and velvety,
A couple million gallons and change, came
Flooding the streets at forty miles per hour.

Over twenty feet tall the wave did surge,
A syrupy bomb, which even Kilgore
Himself wouldn't be brave enough to surf.

Unwitting casualties soon increased,
Including drownings, asphyxiation,
Impact injuries, hypothermia.

And three feet deep when it began to cool,
Having stolen twenty-one lives, harming
One hundred fifty, blame had to be dealt.

In two shakes of the proverbial lamb,
Purity's parent company tried to
Deflect the blame towards Galleanisti.

U.S. Industrial Alcohol, counting
On hatred of Italian immigrants,
Assumed that they could get away with it.

Calling their bluff, the state sent in Ogden,
Whose rigorous audit exposed unsafe,
Poorly fabricated materials.

The shedding of light on negligence and
The conscious cutting of corners, ended
Attempts to exploit xenophobia.

As one of this country's first class-actions,
Doyle got in the ring, Ogden at his side,
Throwing punches for five and a half years.

Justice came as $9 million today, divvied
Up amongst families of the victims,
Not that money would ever bring them back.

The day murderous molasses did flow,
Illustrates an ever-present warning:
Always value people over profit.