Thunder-Junkie Poem by David Welch

To me there's nothing finer
then that charge within the air,
and that strange yellowish light
that tell people to beware.
Most people will see the signs,
they will scurry off and hide,
I admit, I'm one of them,
but as soon as I'm inside
I love it when the weather
acts out like a drama queen,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.

First there comes the sleep, white flash
ripping down from angry clouds,
then base, vibrato rumbles
that shake up the whole dang house.
Next come a few spattered drops,
a minute later: Deluge!
The pounding on metal roofs
sounds so impossibly huge.
Nature puts us in our place
when she gets all big and mean,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.

And then the winds a-thrashing,
the pine branches bow and flex,
the streams swell into rivers,
maybe hail pokes out its neck,
the booms reach a crescendo,
twilight in the afternoon,
the dog is going crazy,
frantic pacing 'round the room.
I guess he is no fan of
nature when raw and obscene,
he is no thunder-junkie,
he is no lightning fiends.

The tingling on my neck
soon begins to face away,
fury has soon spent itself,
never that long can it stay.
The curse of my condition,
highs are over so darn quick,
I'm at the whim of nature
when it comes to my next fix.
Thor is my favorite god of old,
angels bowl within my dreams,
I am a thunder-junkie,
I am a lightning fiend.