THE MEASURE OF MAN.

Fortune is a stricter mistress
Than I once thought:

Insisting upon constant calls from the lords
And ladies of vexation,
But rewarding order;

Supporting the odds of bookies lucky enough
To have her hotline,
Whilst laying off the bets elsewhere;

Routinely screening the probabilities of loss
From those tossing coins
Into the fountains of circumstance

Whilst hampering the paths
Of people touched with a genuine blush
Of substance with regards to facts and figures

And sourcing revenue from any who
Are fool enough to bluff themselves a second chance,
When every last cent has been spent
Supporting the first.

And oh my dear she is worse
Than the curses of the damned
And more addictive than the fixtures
That plucked at their pockets to begin with,

And when she’s finished
We will all wish ourselves more relevant
To the loved ones who will need to be appeased

And more worthy of the
Certainty they never gambled with.