I no longer live in Portland, but I know many people there. This was written to bolster the spirits of three good friends who informed me they'd be participating in the ongoing courthouse protests.
My Portland boys, I hear you'll join the protesting tonight. I bring you heptametric stratagems to aid your fight. Kit Emlyn out to feed those comrades who've made their retreat. Twelve spoons, one vat of jam, and gimp-suit butt cheeks on a seat Will draw the right attention to your makeshift chow hall stand, As long as you establish it far back from no-man's land. Construct a trebuchet and launch Drew o'er the courthouse fence To do karate with his lanky limbies. No defense Can best a six-six wingspan hitting backs high, and fronts low. Sir Unger, rather than the naginata you would stow Before most battles, I suggest you pack in field supplies. Once you've dispensed them, as what Charlie labors may arise Reach your attention, go and help where hands are needed most. Render assistance, then slip clean away, a sideline ghost. One final plea: no matter how the federales chafe, You're better whole than injured. All of you, please come home safe.
This poem alludes to real events. Matt Unger loves himself a good melee weapon, and doesn't shrink from "Charlie work" (tough labor.) Drew, the karate-chopping beanpole, once drew a Kirby OC and, when asked to come up with its name on the spot, stuttered out the ridiculous moniker "Frontlo." Finally, for a term project in the performing arts, Emlyn donned an assless latex gimp suit, and -- with spoons and knives taped to his fingers -- attempted to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the professor and a dozen classmates.