It’s difficult to overstate
How much I don’t believe in Fate.
If que sera, sera’s legit,
Why even try to mess with it?
If it’s been written that I’ll write
This verse, should I just say good-night
Right now, and let these last lines go?
They’ll be there by tomorrow, no?
If Kismet dictates, ’twill be done
Though I write forty lines, or none!
And yet, I’m confident that I
Can miss a deadline if I try,
Or, rather, don’t try. I’ve a record
Leniently described as “checkered”
When it comes to turning in
Reports on time. If I begin
To write the day a paper’s due,
Look up: The moon is likely blue.
To trust in Fate to do the work
On my behalf, I’d be a jerk.
(Which may well be the case; if so,
It’s all the fault of Fate, you know.)
“The Moving Finger writes”–that’s me.
Whose hand’s the Finger on? We’ll see.


About Michael

Silliness is good
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