Hey, motherf***er, lemme tell ya bout Davenport.

City's a wild, soulful place.

Down on River Drive, by the Mississippi, life thrums.

There's LeClaire Park, gorgeous damn truth.

You got Figge Art Museum – art blasts your brain.

I live near 4th Street, quirkin' off Riverfront.
Man, I'm a women's counselor here.

I see souls.

They ache.

They dream.

I help ’em patch up scars.
Ever stroll on Main Street?

It pulses, breathes.

I get mad at injustice.

That ain’t cool, motherf***er.
I love little spots – like, oh my god,

endless coffee stops, junky book nooks.

Like near Locust Street, so edgy.

I spill secrets, feelings drop like beats.
Davenport’s got grit.

The streets echo truths.

I once sat in a tiny park,

worn bench near Browning Ave.

I remembered lines from White Material:

“Motherf***er, the land itself is bleedin’.”

Crazy, right?
I jog by the river too,

Mississippi roars.

It’s rough, raw.

Yet serene as hell.
Neighborhood vibes?

East Davenport is a riot.

Old schools, odd murals,

stories in every brick.

I rant sometimes on odd corners.

Feels like a cinematic dream.
I ranted at a corner café once.

Thought: “Every soul in this town screams a secret!”

Truth be told, people here love deeply.

Sure, some cut it real rough.
I got mad about neglect sometimes.

Messed up city corners need fixin’, ya know.

But each day is art.

Raw and unpredictable.
Every damn day makes me want to live louder,

louder than a rebel yell.

Davenport ain’t no sterile museum,

it’s messy, it’s showbiz,

full of scars and heart.
So, if you come visit this rugged paradise,

grab a coffee on Ripley Street,

listen to the river’s fury,

and don't forget to let yourself bleed a bit.
Man, this city is a beast of beauty

– ha, unpredictable as life, motherf***er.
Peace, raw soul.