I don’t often write of it since it is such a bore,
but bad luck’s had a hold on me since nineteen eighty-four.
The tragedies that equal mine are just the stuff of lore:
sad tales of loves and lives lost–tales of heartache, blood and gore.
Don’t beg to hear my stories, for I won’t tell you more.
Thinking of my problems has me tired to the core.
I want to concentrate on now without the past’s loud roar,
and banish former labels such as “victim, tragic, poor.”
My friends all chipped in for me to go to Lucky School–
believing positive thinking might prove a handy tool.
They figured they’d transform me into wizard from a fool,
so that drawing fortune to me would become my daily rule.
I found a four-leaf clover and a heart shaped like a stone.
I got the longest section when I broke the wishing bone.
I found a silver dollar and rubbed it ‘til it shone,
then gave it to a beggar—a hump-backed aged crone.
The lessons that they taught me in my Lucky School
were that stones may be more valuable than a precious jewel.
Good luck’s never garnered from actions that are cruel
and to never save our gift-giving for birthdays or the Yule.
The way we gain good luck is just to give it all away
every single moment of every single day.
Our trying to hoard it is what keeps good luck at bay.
The luck you give to others is the luck you’ll get to stay.
Good luck is not for finding. It’s simply what you do.
When you hand it off to others, somehow it sticks like glue;
first adhering to the lucky one that you gave it to,
then doubling so an equal part remains right there with you.
The way life keeps the truth obscured sometimes seems most cruel.
How many years I wasted playing the selfish fool.
My friends needn’t have squandered their money on my school,
for all I really needed was to heed the Golden Rule.