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…
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