Crossing your fingers,
hoping it happens,
wishing for that odd thing-
luscious luck -
preciously partial
loyal to none
for fancy or for fun.
Beneath the pillow,
on the window sill,
across the havens,
lying silently still.
Lady Luck busy as a bee,
seated on her majestic mobile throne
she beckons to all,
calling out to none.
Crossing my fingers,
twisting my tempting thoughts,
I greedily want all
that luck has to offer
not willing to work
not prompting to perspire -
Is that not what we all desire?
Luck without labour?
Only for us to favour?
