tale to tale

Luck is an arse,
A posing, pretentious scene-stealing arse.
Luck makes you believe in something other than yourself,
Makes you fantasize over it’s power.
But it’s a fraud, a lazy worker
Who gets praised for showing up,
Not even on time.

It rains on the parade of coincidence,
Taking the glory from chance,
And is worshipped as an eternal blessing –
Making one day of the year,
Slightly less mundane.

It guises itself in objective reality,
Luck would have it that the bar was still open,
That your bus arrived,
Or that you didn’t have a spot today.
Like a restaurant that has a table,
Like the weather being good,
Like you owning an umbrella if it’s not.
Like a book with all its pages,
Like bumping into a friend
Or like buying the last lottery ticket the shop has to offer
(And still lose).

Luck is a facist arse,
Never sharing the wealth with all.
Like when it steals the credit
Of your best life achievements.
When you chose a good balanced life,
Full of joy and hard work.
You’ll take your best moments and give it to luck,
I couldn’t have made this happen, you’d think,
Wading through life waiting for it’s next gift.
But you’ll wait a while, because it doesn’t exist,
That’s your power, and you know it.