Black cat, drat
Walking under ladders; does it really matter?
Step on a crack, how’s your mother’s back?
These recipes for superstition often come to some fruition…
When you sneeze, please hold your nose, and whisper “Labruid”.
A mirror breaks, for seven years your luck will be no good.
Careful in a building if it has a floor thirteen
chances are its occupants are really rather mean.
Roswell in New Mexico’s the place you must attend
if, by chance, your interests run to greenish little men.
While we’re on that color green, another one that’s thorny:
watch out for green M & Ms since they will make you . . .
Corny cobs in snowmen’s mouths will make them come alive,
Elvis is still living; he alone invented jive,
just like Al Gore with the Internet, and Bush, Saddam Hussein
(As a side note, aren’t all politicians just a pain!).
Well, I guess in these last lines I’ve gone quite far afield (Ed.
From classic superstitions to the modern ones I’ve yielded),
I must be moving on, but yet I have one final note:
Don’t make me out to be your sacrificial lamb, er, goat.
For when it comes to superstitions, I just don’t believe ’em
(though watch me as I hold my breath when I pass a mausoleum).
Nothing ever beats a little bit of self-protection,
just as long as I don’t indulge in any serious self-reflection.