#88: Doth Strength Come In Numbers? (Power)

Sighn Post 7

The fog was thickening around the Car.
We slowed down to a crawl.
We pushed and pulled on every knob,
and peddle that we saw.

The noise we heard began to build
like some guitar reverb,
increasing with the pressure of
the fog we had disturbed.

We broke out through what I would call
extremely clear air-space.
We bolted forth, then, bouncing off
all bumpers in the place.

We slammed into a painted sign
that looked just like a graph,
and at the top, we read the words:
"The High End Epitaph."

Power - it's a measurement . . .
from strength to smell of excrement,
from thrust of rocket, heaven-sent,
to decibel of a scream's lament,
from soft to hard,
from low to high,
from weak to strong,
and dead to spry.
In golf, it may improve your lie.
In tennis it can fault your fly.

It's not the power that you vent
that guarantees your incident
for stronger, still, may be the guy
who checks his swing and tames his try . . .

No MPH, nor brim that's full,
nor high degree of centigrade
nor sour lems in lemonade
nor any number, level, height,
depth nor distance, must nor might
see you through a stormy night
when thy soul is discontent.

Remember the composer's impudent brag . . .?
It belonged to Richard, that Nihilist Vag.
It wasn't tempo, volume or pitch
that made the heavens jump and twitch.
He angered gods, and all their roadies . . .
by the nature of his melodies.

Keep your powers useful . . .
they should be tickets . . .
not sticky wickets!