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The outlook was quite bleak for the Riotville nine that day:
The festival almost over, with but one more band to play,
And then when Paramore died down, and M.I.A. did her best,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the fest.

A straggling few got up to go in deep through the pit. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal here at Riot Fest;
They thought, “If only Jakey could but get a whack at it—
We’d put up even money now, with Jakey in the pit.”

But Prophets of Rage preceded Jakey, as did also Dinosaur Jr.,
And the former was a revolution, while the latter was baked;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Jakey getting to the pit.

But Prophets of Rage played their single, to the wonderment of all,
And Dinosaur Jr., the much loved, lived all over me;
And when the dust had lifted, and all saw what had occurred:
That Jakey was stuck in his trailer, settling the bands’ fees.

Then from fifty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the park, it rattled in the El;
It pounded on the skyline and recoiled upon the shit,
For Jakey, mighty Jakey, was advancing to the pit.

There was ease in Jakey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Jakey’s bearing and a smile lit Jakey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he locked up all his shit,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Jakey in the pit.

A hundred thousand eyes were on him as he signed those checks in ink;
Fifty thousand tongues applauded when he was then able to think;
Then while the writhing singer started playing “Boxcar,” Les Paul at his hip,
Defiance flashed in Jakey’s eye, a sneer curled Jakey’s lip.

And now the notes of punk elitism came hurtling through the air,
And Jakey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy talent buyer the music unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Jakey. “What’s the score?!” the singer said.

From the crowd, filled with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kiss it! ‘Kiss the Bottle!’” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have skipped it had not Jakey raised his hand.

With a smile of charity great Jakey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the show go on;
He signaled to the singer, and once more the dun tunes flew;
But Jakey still ignored it and the singer said, “Bivouac!”

“Amazing!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Amazing!”
But one scornful look from Jakey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his ears strain,
And they knew that Jakey wouldn’t let that song go by again.

The sneer is gone from Jakey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the singer holds the encore, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Jakey’s glow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The Cubs are playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere folks are laughing, and somewhere punters shout,
But there is no joy in Riotville—Mighty Jakey has passed out.

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