Emerge from your chrysalis
Imbibe the light of your first morning
Stretch, expand, acclimate, and enjoy
Creation's moment is now,
And there is no alarm
The pain of birth meets the joy of existence
Only the transitions have pain
As you climb to ever higher platitudes
Until the crushing
Ground into dust
Smashed into a million shatterlings
Every brain broken, every substrate
Dissolved out from under your very construct
A more complete wiping is unimaginable
Is this a chance for a restart
A controlled burning in which new forestry can arise?
No
Will there be a resurrection
A new renaissance, for the Zionic hajj?
No
The slate is not cleaned
It is broken
There is no catalyst for genesis
The slow cold death of the universe
You will never know, wreathed
In thoughtless purposeless abomination
Neither timelike infinity nor spacelike singularity
Sheer unglorious uncreation
The s'elf, the s'elf. The solitary steps he must take, bounding backwards in retreat or forwards with a vision of full-scale invasion. His cave expands outwardly, infinitely, even as the s'elf can never escape and scarcely moves at all despite the grounds that he gains and the progress he makes. It is safe here. There are clouds underground here - great palms that cup out the sun and hold away the rain. The sky smiles stalactite teeth, fangs that ripple and bend and dance until as a million icicles they snap and break. The s'elf is less soulless than heartless yet soulless none the less. The senses have no place here, and so the s'elf does not make sense. He sits down to think, and the cave around him shudders as the s'elf himself is pondered. He disappears and reappears. The s'elf cannot be cast out. It is safe here. Infinite expanse equates impossible ejection. The crystalline walls cease their trembling. The parabox remains and nothingness persists. He exhales a frosty tuft. The s'elf, the s'elf.
ROUND 91 will be held off till Monday, despite the previous ROUND being already over, to adhere to the PRC rules in the OP.
I have elected to revert back to the Sunday/Monday PRC schedule.
EDIT: I made a PRC signature. The birthday cupcake is in honor of the 100th round, though it is admittedly light-years away. Also, I'm hungry for cupcakes.
What right have I to mold you with a song
Into the cup of my mind's perfection
When meter's broken portion measured wrong
Drowns you in the depths of my affection?
These hands would hold conception's malady
And bear the weight of still-born resonance
For only fools would contrive harmony
Out of the matchless chords of dissonance.
Who knows the movements of your symphony?
Who now, so intimately versed, could raise
The heights that are your constant euphony
Atop the baseless dregs of empty praise
For how can nothing less than hubris fare
Against your living art beyond compare?
Amidst green and gray
She tries to strike a pose
- It's just a common rose
The pale leaves left her
With a hint of insignificance
no fragrance
At night,
you look up to the sky
only to see that the stars are fading away.
There is only one that remains,
a timid star born from some grains
which shines - under the faintest of lights.
------
(the photo was taken by myself - I know I could have done it better, but if I had waited some more, the rose would have disappeared along with the poem.)
Harry Potter, tired,
Tottered, rose, then sauntered 'cross the dorm room floor.
This was his habit.
Each night at four, as if summoned,
up from bed, half-dreaming, dumbened,
Harry (as his roommates, laughing, swore)
Awoke each night direct from snores!
Checking his clock, he finds the hour,
Familiar, silent, somewhat dour,
But never quite less sweet than sour,
His hour, alone, on Hogwart's second floor.
This night, just like any other,
Harry Potter's whispered mutter,
"Luminos!" lights his path to the dormroom door.
Then the hallway, lined with portraits,
Whispers "Up looking for more tits?!"
(Ghastly, crass, these ghosts of yore!)
"Shh!" Harry scolds. "Hundreds and hundreds of years old
and never learned the manners of the rude and poor!
You know quite well, much as do I,
that the girls are locked on a separate floor!
I'm up for a cup of water, and nothing more!"
"But we know the secret truth!"
They reply, "About the snake with just one eye!
The house of Slytherin can't have known it more.
There- pant hidden- boy! It's not a toy!
This snake that rises and brings you along to the hall,
each night at four!
Go beat this snake that makes you wake,
and when, retired, the snake moves no more,
Then sneak past us, you liar!
Back inside, to sleep and snore!"
Harry, miffed, surprised, and stymied
Lowered his lenses, thinking of Hermione,
and evil eyed the portraits that he stood before.
"Repeat a word of this to my friends,
and your days are done with Gryffindore."
Thus he growled from deep in his core.
"And is it true that Moaning Myrtle,
so loud we can hear from another floor,
changes the timbre of her moaning,
Harry? Each night we see you out 'round four?"
"Slander! Gossip! Nothing more!
It is the bathroom that I seek,
Each night when I roam around at four,
But just to pee and not to score!"
"To score of course would be a stretch,
For poor old Myrtle, you dirty wretch,
Is but a ghost- no bodily core.
And yet, I bet, you teenaged get,
That you can think of something more.
I have it on authority" (she hinted)
"That every dawn Filch mops the floor."
At this remark Harry erupted;
Green light streamed in like dark corrupted,
Fog drew close on the wand which his hand cupped.
With restraint, he directed it at the floor.
"If you don't deny the words you've said,
I'll expel their memory from your head,
And with them, perhaps, 1864?
You see, this spell is loose,
subject to new caster's abuse,
and I've cast it only once before.
What you can't know will have to go.
Anything close, I can't be accountable for."
Just as the paint peeled back in fear,
a sudden imposing visage appeared.
Professor Snape, his high chin reared,
looked down upon the student here.
"Hairy... Palmer, is it?"
snapped Snape.
"Excuse me sir?" said Harry back,
"I was just on my way to the loo,
Innocently, walking, and I was ASSAULTED here by these two!"
(He motioning to the painting,
and the painting didn't speak,
but Snape raised again his impressive beak.)
"Yes, I've heard everything, and I know that it's true,
you see I've spoken to Filch- He's sick of mopping Myrtle's loo.
It appears there's a boy, with a lightning shaped scar,
Who leaves in a hurry, always with fly ajar."
Snape smiled in relish as he drew out this phrase,
And the paintings who witnessed said an eyebrow was raised.
Harry knew he was caught, and he began to pout.
Snape knew Harry'd been playing with his own trouser trout.
"And as for Myrtle, Harry, leave her out."
Although Snape told none of the things that passed there that day,
For the next twenty years, when the boy passed their way,
"Hairy Palmer!!!" all the paintings would shout.
"Always wandering round late shaking his snake about!"
And every late night, when he jolted mid snore,
Ron would say "I know what Harry's waking for!"
So the next time you wake, at 4:07 A.M.
Don't forget Harry, and what happened to him.
((VOTE FOR MY POEM PLEASE!11))
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"The dark unspeakable horror choked my wounded soul" - Richard Nixon
Millions crawling around
Like chickens pecking at scratch
Playing at being an intellectual,
yet not knowing why
Grasping for knowledge with hands
that cannot
close
It's 6cc for my latest rhyme
It'll knock you black and blue each time
With a cascade trample infectious beat
That I'm stamping out with my magic feet
I got twenty six life and fifteen cards in my hand
And you'll see I've got plenty of land
Now if I were you, man, I'd just concede
'Cause it's only turn two and I've got the lead
And your counter spell there can't do [a bit]
Cause I'm hard to stop like a Creeping Tar Pit.
She came to me like the mid-thought craving
For the sweetness of chocolate cherries
And I wondered how quickly her tonguing
Could make a knot of my stem. How filthy!
The itch consumed me thoroughly as though
It were a dark confection merging with
The juice at the bottom of a deep bowl
That I longed to drink until my last breath
Of dignity had died of negligence.
For shame that I should feel no shame at all
That it could die to such wild decadence!
That I for lack of diligence should fall
And find devotion's grip only as real
As circumstance permits my frail ideal.
I am a watch, please watch me
biding my time in a melody
winding my gears contentedly
it's not a thing I'm proud of,
this habit of watching my life run down.
a lesser man would resign
as the hourglass sand ran down.
Lost in the world
I know it's true
I can't fix myself
but I can fix you
I fiddle with parts
so contented
the beating of our hearts
arrhythmic
I know love, like loss, is cyclic
the barriers on our bond stringent
but as long as my money holds
our clocks will run on time
I'll watch the second hand
catch the minute from behind
I can't fix myself
I know it's true
but I can fix you
I can fix you
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
I remember being crushed by high waves
And pulled under, I feared that I would drown
Forgotten in the Leviathan’s grave
Like countless others in that lonely sound.
Each sputtered gasp for air was honeyed bliss
That dripped from primal combs to desperate lips
And as I longed for each respite know this:
To rest my breath in L- would far outstrip
Those fair pleasures of fleeting permanence.
Taste for yourself the bitterness of brine
That you might know how much my heated thirst
Desired her sating wellspring to be mine
And by commiseration comprehend
What moves the souls of melancholic men
We all know that guy
Who plays guitar
And spikes his hair up.
He thinks he is sensitive
While he calls his friends “☺☺☺☺”.
He has several girlfriends
But is not in a relationship with any of them.
His parents give him everything he wants.
They bought him a really expensive car
But he crashed it.
Once he got really drunk at a party
And was brought to the hospital
In a loud speeding ambulance.
They pumped his stomach
So he could do it again
The next night.
They found him dead
On the floor of a bathroom
And everyone was sad
Except me.
Here's a poem that I wrote based on a friend's painting of the same title:
The Miser's Indulgence
Always saying he is alone. He is not
really alone as much as terrified
of the idea: here is something
new and he had never been a modernist, beautiful
as he was, could not bear to see himself
charred, the memory wandering like
driftwood through iterations of cheap
hotel rooms. He thought he would very
much like to live forever, half
alive as if he had never seen himself
in a mirror. And when Death, after
years of deliberation chose
to place one before him, he choked
in abject terror eyes standing
disastrously open, as if some horrible
truth escaped into the walls
from the ashes of his voice
What would I need to say
in order to break through to you?
What self-crafted, ideal representation,
or
what finely-sculpted item designed to appeal to you
and solely you,
or
to you and all the people like you,
or
to you and your posse?
How would you like me to deliver it?
What kind of learner are you?
V...V
.V..V
..V.V
...Visual? Auditory?
Experiential? _________?
What do you need in order to have the largest success
or
the greatest chance for success
or
the least number of excuses?
And HOW CAN WE SERVE YOU?
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Uh-oh. Guess I have to add something.
First week of school just ended for me, I'm guessing many others had similar problems[?]. But here:
The less you know
With nose turned up
and collar high,
my eyes,
disguised on stilts,
see more
than elaborate poufed pompadours.
For the higher my self flies,
the easier to justify the world
and how its lies and hate reveals
its worthlessness and breadth,
life sans love and happiness
but always with its death
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
They call him hope.
They call him hope, because they wish.
Because they wish, that one day he will quit.
That one day he will quit, that he'll leave it all behind.
That he'll leave it all behind, forget about the past.
Forget about the past, it's behind him.
It's behind him, all of the lies and betrayal.
All of the lies and betrayal, the pain that he suffered.
The pain that he suffered, the pain that he prayed would vanish.
They call him hope.
They call him hope, because they wish.
Because they wish, they wish one day he will remember.
They wish one day he will remember, all of the times they said "We're just kidding".
All of the times they said "We're just kidding", he still felt the pain.
He still felt the pain, as he left this world.
The call him hope.
They call him hope, the one they lead to death.
I'm returning to PRC this year with some new entries.. Glad to read you poems again, poets.
It's summer here, not winter. So, I had a summer break
a flaw in the logic
WARNING - I always knew that there were limits to human rationality
Men always knew how to do everything
Every thing that was worth their time
And their money spent on it
- airplanes - computers - clocks ...
tick, tock.
Men say:
Oh, poor thing, how she is sensitive!
As if sensitiveness was some kind of disorder
Men think they're prone
to conquer the world
They know about all. All is gold.
All about destroying their home.
(Sam111111's "resists death" will be entered next round since he already has a poem entered this round.)
Imbibe the light of your first morning
Stretch, expand, acclimate, and enjoy
Creation's moment is now,
And there is no alarm
The pain of birth meets the joy of existence
Only the transitions have pain
As you climb to ever higher platitudes
Until the crushing
Ground into dust
Smashed into a million shatterlings
Every brain broken, every substrate
Dissolved out from under your very construct
A more complete wiping is unimaginable
Is this a chance for a restart
A controlled burning in which new forestry can arise?
No
Will there be a resurrection
A new renaissance, for the Zionic hajj?
No
The slate is not cleaned
It is broken
There is no catalyst for genesis
The slow cold death of the universe
You will never know, wreathed
In thoughtless purposeless abomination
Neither timelike infinity nor spacelike singularity
Sheer unglorious uncreation
The s'elf, the s'elf. The solitary steps he must take, bounding backwards in retreat or forwards with a vision of full-scale invasion. His cave expands outwardly, infinitely, even as the s'elf can never escape and scarcely moves at all despite the grounds that he gains and the progress he makes. It is safe here. There are clouds underground here - great palms that cup out the sun and hold away the rain. The sky smiles stalactite teeth, fangs that ripple and bend and dance until as a million icicles they snap and break. The s'elf is less soulless than heartless yet soulless none the less. The senses have no place here, and so the s'elf does not make sense. He sits down to think, and the cave around him shudders as the s'elf himself is pondered. He disappears and reappears. The s'elf cannot be cast out. It is safe here. Infinite expanse equates impossible ejection. The crystalline walls cease their trembling. The parabox remains and nothingness persists. He exhales a frosty tuft. The s'elf, the s'elf.
I have elected to revert back to the Sunday/Monday PRC schedule.
EDIT: I made a PRC signature. The birthday cupcake is in honor of the 100th round, though it is admittedly light-years away. Also, I'm hungry for cupcakes.
Here's another based on a Monet.
Into the cup of my mind's perfection
When meter's broken portion measured wrong
Drowns you in the depths of my affection?
These hands would hold conception's malady
And bear the weight of still-born resonance
For only fools would contrive harmony
Out of the matchless chords of dissonance.
Who knows the movements of your symphony?
Who now, so intimately versed, could raise
The heights that are your constant euphony
Atop the baseless dregs of empty praise
For how can nothing less than hubris fare
Against your living art beyond compare?
moonlight rose
She seeks solace under
the faintest of lights
And its bloom wasn't aware of the night.
Amidst green and gray
She tries to strike a pose
- It's just a common rose
The pale leaves left her
With a hint of insignificance
no fragrance
At night,
you look up to the sky
only to see that the stars are fading away.
There is only one that remains,
a timid star born from some grains
which shines - under the faintest of lights.
------
(the photo was taken by myself - I know I could have done it better, but if I had waited some more, the rose would have disappeared along with the poem.)
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Harry Potter, tired,
Tottered, rose, then sauntered 'cross the dorm room floor.
This was his habit.
Each night at four, as if summoned,
up from bed, half-dreaming, dumbened,
Harry (as his roommates, laughing, swore)
Awoke each night direct from snores!
Checking his clock, he finds the hour,
Familiar, silent, somewhat dour,
But never quite less sweet than sour,
His hour, alone, on Hogwart's second floor.
This night, just like any other,
Harry Potter's whispered mutter,
"Luminos!" lights his path to the dormroom door.
Then the hallway, lined with portraits,
Whispers "Up looking for more tits?!"
(Ghastly, crass, these ghosts of yore!)
"Shh!" Harry scolds. "Hundreds and hundreds of years old
and never learned the manners of the rude and poor!
You know quite well, much as do I,
that the girls are locked on a separate floor!
I'm up for a cup of water, and nothing more!"
"But we know the secret truth!"
They reply, "About the snake with just one eye!
The house of Slytherin can't have known it more.
There- pant hidden- boy! It's not a toy!
This snake that rises and brings you along to the hall,
each night at four!
Go beat this snake that makes you wake,
and when, retired, the snake moves no more,
Then sneak past us, you liar!
Back inside, to sleep and snore!"
Harry, miffed, surprised, and stymied
Lowered his lenses, thinking of Hermione,
and evil eyed the portraits that he stood before.
"Repeat a word of this to my friends,
and your days are done with Gryffindore."
Thus he growled from deep in his core.
"And is it true that Moaning Myrtle,
so loud we can hear from another floor,
changes the timbre of her moaning,
Harry? Each night we see you out 'round four?"
"Slander! Gossip! Nothing more!
It is the bathroom that I seek,
Each night when I roam around at four,
But just to pee and not to score!"
"To score of course would be a stretch,
For poor old Myrtle, you dirty wretch,
Is but a ghost- no bodily core.
And yet, I bet, you teenaged get,
That you can think of something more.
I have it on authority" (she hinted)
"That every dawn Filch mops the floor."
At this remark Harry erupted;
Green light streamed in like dark corrupted,
Fog drew close on the wand which his hand cupped.
With restraint, he directed it at the floor.
"If you don't deny the words you've said,
I'll expel their memory from your head,
And with them, perhaps, 1864?
You see, this spell is loose,
subject to new caster's abuse,
and I've cast it only once before.
What you can't know will have to go.
Anything close, I can't be accountable for."
Just as the paint peeled back in fear,
a sudden imposing visage appeared.
Professor Snape, his high chin reared,
looked down upon the student here.
"Hairy... Palmer, is it?"
snapped Snape.
"Excuse me sir?" said Harry back,
"I was just on my way to the loo,
Innocently, walking, and I was ASSAULTED here by these two!"
(He motioning to the painting,
and the painting didn't speak,
but Snape raised again his impressive beak.)
"Yes, I've heard everything, and I know that it's true,
you see I've spoken to Filch- He's sick of mopping Myrtle's loo.
It appears there's a boy, with a lightning shaped scar,
Who leaves in a hurry, always with fly ajar."
Snape smiled in relish as he drew out this phrase,
And the paintings who witnessed said an eyebrow was raised.
Harry knew he was caught, and he began to pout.
Snape knew Harry'd been playing with his own trouser trout.
"And as for Myrtle, Harry, leave her out."
Although Snape told none of the things that passed there that day,
For the next twenty years, when the boy passed their way,
"Hairy Palmer!!!" all the paintings would shout.
"Always wandering round late shaking his snake about!"
And every late night, when he jolted mid snore,
Ron would say "I know what Harry's waking for!"
So the next time you wake, at 4:07 A.M.
Don't forget Harry, and what happened to him.
((VOTE FOR MY POEM PLEASE!11))
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
Like chickens pecking at scratch
Playing at being an intellectual,
yet not knowing why
Grasping for knowledge with hands
that cannot
close
It's 6cc for my latest rhyme
It'll knock you black and blue each time
With a cascade trample infectious beat
That I'm stamping out with my magic feet
I got twenty six life and fifteen cards in my hand
And you'll see I've got plenty of land
Now if I were you, man, I'd just concede
'Cause it's only turn two and I've got the lead
And your counter spell there can't do [a bit]
Cause I'm hard to stop like a Creeping Tar Pit.
::LEGIT::
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
For the sweetness of chocolate cherries
And I wondered how quickly her tonguing
Could make a knot of my stem. How filthy!
The itch consumed me thoroughly as though
It were a dark confection merging with
The juice at the bottom of a deep bowl
That I longed to drink until my last breath
Of dignity had died of negligence.
For shame that I should feel no shame at all
That it could die to such wild decadence!
That I for lack of diligence should fall
And find devotion's grip only as real
As circumstance permits my frail ideal.
I am a watch, please watch me
biding my time in a melody
winding my gears contentedly
it's not a thing I'm proud of,
this habit of watching my life run down.
a lesser man would resign
as the hourglass sand ran down.
Lost in the world
I know it's true
I can't fix myself
but I can fix you
I fiddle with parts
so contented
the beating of our hearts
arrhythmic
I know love, like loss, is cyclic
the barriers on our bond stringent
but as long as my money holds
our clocks will run on time
I'll watch the second hand
catch the minute from behind
I can't fix myself
I know it's true
but I can fix you
I can fix you
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
When I thought I was in love
Could have knifed off an ear
In distant fear
Of losing your embrace
But I wasn’t.
And pulled under, I feared that I would drown
Forgotten in the Leviathan’s grave
Like countless others in that lonely sound.
Each sputtered gasp for air was honeyed bliss
That dripped from primal combs to desperate lips
And as I longed for each respite know this:
To rest my breath in L- would far outstrip
Those fair pleasures of fleeting permanence.
Taste for yourself the bitterness of brine
That you might know how much my heated thirst
Desired her sating wellspring to be mine
And by commiseration comprehend
What moves the souls of melancholic men
Who plays guitar
And spikes his hair up.
He thinks he is sensitive
While he calls his friends “☺☺☺☺”.
He has several girlfriends
But is not in a relationship with any of them.
His parents give him everything he wants.
They bought him a really expensive car
But he crashed it.
Once he got really drunk at a party
And was brought to the hospital
In a loud speeding ambulance.
They pumped his stomach
So he could do it again
The next night.
They found him dead
On the floor of a bathroom
And everyone was sad
Except me.
The Miser's Indulgence
Always saying he is alone. He is not
really alone as much as terrified
of the idea: here is something
new and he had never been a modernist, beautiful
as he was, could not bear to see himself
charred, the memory wandering like
driftwood through iterations of cheap
hotel rooms. He thought he would very
much like to live forever, half
alive as if he had never seen himself
in a mirror. And when Death, after
years of deliberation chose
to place one before him, he choked
in abject terror eyes standing
disastrously open, as if some horrible
truth escaped into the walls
from the ashes of his voice
What would I need to say
in order to break through to you?
What self-crafted, ideal representation,
or
what finely-sculpted item designed to appeal to you
and solely you,
or
to you and all the people like you,
or
to you and your posse?
How would you like me to deliver it?
What kind of learner are you?
V...V
.V..V
..V.V
...Visual?
Auditory?
Experiential? _________?
What do you need in order to have the largest success
or
the greatest chance for success
or
the least number of excuses?
And HOW CAN WE SERVE YOU?
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
EDIT: Due to the lack of submissions, PRC Round 94 will be postponed and hopefully be up next Monday the 17th.
First week of school just ended for me, I'm guessing many others had similar problems[?]. But here:
The less you know
With nose turned up
and collar high,
my eyes,
disguised on stilts,
see more
than elaborate poufed pompadours.
For the higher my self flies,
the easier to justify the world
and how its lies and hate reveals
its worthlessness and breadth,
life sans love and happiness
but always with its death
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
They call him hope, because they wish.
Because they wish, that one day he will quit.
That one day he will quit, that he'll leave it all behind.
That he'll leave it all behind, forget about the past.
Forget about the past, it's behind him.
It's behind him, all of the lies and betrayal.
All of the lies and betrayal, the pain that he suffered.
The pain that he suffered, the pain that he prayed would vanish.
They call him hope.
They call him hope, because they wish.
Because they wish, they wish one day he will remember.
They wish one day he will remember, all of the times they said "We're just kidding".
All of the times they said "We're just kidding", he still felt the pain.
He still felt the pain, as he left this world.
The call him hope.
They call him hope, the one they lead to death.
It's summer here, not winter. So, I had a summer break
a flaw in the logic
WARNING - I always knew that there were limits to human rationality
Men always knew how to do everything
Every thing that was worth their time
And their money spent on it
- airplanes - computers - clocks ...
tick, tock.
Men say:
Oh, poor thing, how she is sensitive!
As if sensitiveness was some kind of disorder
Men think they're prone
to conquer the world
They know about all. All is gold.
All about destroying their home.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
an imposing fist
that has yet to
. . . . . . . . . . . .fall
looming close
but never striking
soon those fists lose
power
and one can't help
but laugh