The Bang and the Whimper

By Lynn Ockersz

A few feeble, final blasts,

Coming from the strutting Trumpeter,

Peter out to a dying whimper,

But the heady potion,

From which he drank deep,

For four maudlin years,

Will have him fretting in anger,

For, those trappings of power,

Will be a giant millstone,

That will dog him all his years.