Your cup runneth over,

Luck within leaves of a four-leaf clover.

Brass goblets clasped

Pinkies raised,

Grimacing while sipping a suspicious taste.

While some crave gold,

Others aren’t cut from that mold.

Prophet foretold,

Ageless when old,

Man-made stories told,

The people controlled.

On the end of strings

Our limbs pulled and twirled,

Trapped dancing

In a mad puppet world.

We jig,

We jive,

We boogie,

We spin.

Though we appear content,

It’s much to our chagrin.