It all depends on how our inclinations blend.
For a day of good luck we take Gran out to dinner
Then bugger it all by breaking a mirror.
In life’s balance half rises as the other half dips,
And a stranger’s nadir is our solar eclipse.
The wishing-well in our garden, fished by a gnome,
Will recall to the vagrant his distance from home.
For every bad habit too pernicious to kick it
Someone else wins a thousandth of a lottery ticket.
And when bird-shit hits dropped from above
We thank our lucky stars we’ll be the object of love.