If You Show the Fucking Gun, It Damn Well Has To Go Off

The strong wind is gathering the storm-clouds together above the gray plain of the ocean so wide.The storm-finch, the bird that resembles dark lightning, between clouds and ocean, soaring.Skimming the waves with his wings, shooting up, arrow-like, into the dark clouds on high, the storm-finch is clamoring loudly, shrilly; the clouds can hear the bird's fearless cry. In that cry is the yearning, the thirst for the tempest, and anger's hot might in its wild notes is heard; the keen fire of passion, the faith in sure triumph
—All these the clouds hear in the voice of the bird.The seagulls lament with a storm impending; they flitter o'er the waves with a piercing wail; they are ready to hide in the depths of the ocean as their dread of this tempest threatens from on high.The cargeese and grebes, too, shriek hoarsely in terror; they mourn and complain when the tempest is near; they know not the joy of life-and-death struggle; the crash of the thunderbolt fills them with fear.
The fat, foolish penguin hides, timid and craven, in nooks of the cliffs, where it finds a safe home; alone, the proud storm-finch soars blindly fearless above the rough ocean, all hoary with foam.Still nearer and darker the storm-clouds lower themselves onto the broad ocean; the waves as they beat sing and dance as they lift themselves upward, as if they were longing the thunder to meet.The thunder is crashing, billows are roaring; the depths are foaming with rage. They shriek and they gasp as they strive with the gale.Now the storm-wind clasps fiercely the bevy of waves in his powerful grasp; it hurls them, with all his mad strength, in grim fury, against the precipitous cliffs of the rock.
The emerald masses of water are shattered to spray a fine mist by the force of the shock.
The storm-finch, the bird that resembles dark lightning, soaring with cries 'mid the tempest's fierce breath; like an arrow he pierces the clouds; with his pinions dashing the foam from the billows beneath.He darts like a haughty black demon of tempest, in wild exultation that knows no alloy.
'Twixt the sea and the sky he vacillates laughing and sobbing. He laughs to the clouds defiantly his sobbing is for valiant joy!In the wrath of the thunder, the keen, quick-eared demon has long since detected a note of fatigue. He is firm in his faith that the clouds will nary cover a bright sun for aye, though they stretch league on league.The storm-wind is howling, the thunder is roaring; with flame blue and lambent the cloud-masses glow o'er the fathomless ocean; it catches the lightnings, and quenches them deep in its whirlpool below.Like serpents of fire in the dark ocean writhing, the lightnings reflected quiver and shake, as into the blackness they vanish forever.
The tempest! Now quickly the tempest will break!The storm-finch soars fearless and proud 'mid the lightnings, above the wild waves that the roaring winds fret; and what is the prophet of victory saying?
"Oh, let the storm burst! Fiercer yet—fiercer yet!"