(Verse 1) January morn in '19, Boston's North End docks, A giant tank stood looming, defying all the clocks. Fifty feet of metal, Purity's sweet store, Filled with dark molasses, 'til it couldn't hold no more. Kids played in the alley, a streetcar trundled by, Beneath a winter sun, in a deceptively blue sky. A rumble, then a shiver, a groan from steel so grand, No one dreamed the danger, across the busy land. (Chorus) Oh, the Great Molasses Flood, a twenty-five foot tide, A sticky, slow destruction, where twenty-one souls died. Not water, not a fire, but a wave of treacle dark, Swept through the streets of Boston, leaving its awful mark. A sugary catastrophe, a nightmare deep and brown, The Great Molasses Flood, engulfed a winter town. (Verse 2) It burst at thirty-five miles per hour, no time to get away, A wall of liquid darkness, ruined that fateful day. Houses ripped from foundations, horses trapped and drowned, People struggling, gasping, on the molasses ground. Rescue workers waded, through the thick and heavy goo, The cleanup took forever, for me and maybe you. And for decades after, folks swore on their breath, That sweet, cloying odor, still whispered tales of death.
