Blackstrap Flooded The Bay State

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.