We deal with the suns rejection for ten months of the year,
Consoling our sorrows with rich warm foods and deep brown coffee stouts;
We strive to validate the rain and its comfort.
But we can still feel its selfishness pour down on us drop by drop,
Dragging us slowly but fiercely into its depressive state.
That egotistical bitch would always win me over.
Suddenly, jasmine, honeysuckle and lavender would penetrate our nostrils and fill our brains,
Puck the trickster starts to prank us all and our hearts turn soft and hands get lonely,
And there is no use searching too long for other hands to hold,
For all you have to do is wake up.
Lusty tomatoes get round and blush for the perseverant sun.
Getting high on sweet dark berries and staying up way past our bedtimes.
Days trickle by in a sticky sensual way,
And we all say we hate it, with a smile on our lips.
Walkers, hikers, climbers, runners, always moving on and on;
Stepping through forests in a hurried fashion,
Taking in views for a split second,
Eyes and mind are always up and forward.
Next river, next mountain, next trail is always on our minds,
The camera clicks, the trail mix is gone, and the cars are washed up.
Same water, same sand, same dirt on their bodies and souls.
We all serving, cooking, selling this and that,
Selling smiles and attitudes for the regulars,
Portland spirit is thrown in for a generous tip.
It will all make sense at the end of the night,
At a dark bar full of the same strangers,
Over a pint brimming full of lost hopes and dreams.
That is when it all makes sense.
Bearded men with warm eyes and old flannel shirts,
Sitting on a stool at a bar, a manly throne for a night they will forget.
They have a sweetness that spills from their mouths into pretty girls ears,
Till their vision turns yellow and their breath smells like honeycomb candy.
Soft bellied girls, their tattooed sleeves creeps into their hearts,
Each picture tells an ingenious story they love to reject sharing.
Drinking beers with hops and whiskies on clever little glasses,
Always striving to make a point.
No one dares tell them there are no points to make anymore.
A new sticker, saying, team or tattoo comes up every once in a while,
We wear them with abnormal pride and general disgust,
Yeah, I am part of it,
Portland, City of Roses,
Those stinking sweet roses.