Bad luck and all that jazz,
born under a bad sign.
Jinxed like a Greek tragety,
just a rhythm without the rhyme.

Who suffers the truth?
Who bites more than they need?
Who choked and spit it out?

Something wicked this way comes,
it's just you and the broken mirror.
Under ladders, behind the 8-ball,
black cats walk with something to fear.

Like the dodo, doomed from the start,
extinct without reason or motive.
Forks in sockets portray your methods,
stuck like a cancer, distended and bloated.

Who ate the bad seed?
Who gagged on the hand that feeds?
Who spilled the salt for the last time?

06/23/2005

Posted on 06/23/2005
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