It has been a couple of weeks
since the rigor of being McGregor
boiled down to nothing,
and Mayweather
had an Irma of punches
ricochet off of him.

I recollect this seemingly regular
pre-big-match rumor,
that the game was arranged.
These verdicters
pronounced a loss for Conor.
If so, Mc. man there
took way too many hits for the money.

Now that McGregor is left for dead,
and verily, Floyd
may or may not have added
a few more Lamborghinis
from the Billion bucks prize !!!
Many fortunes have changed.

I've fallen deep down
into this cemetery
where my thoughts lay dead,
and from the abyss sprout up a paradox
that stands for all fortunes:
We all fish in the same waters;
if one stirs a ripple,
driving the fishes away,
another is gifted a school without much labor.

There is an old concept
A Wives' Tale some say
That in minds has been kept
And passed on to this day:

*The world has zero net
Each life has the same
Some luck in beginning
Some good in the end
Whether spread out thin
Or gathered at once
Each person holds within
A set amount of luck
For those who face hardships
Early on in their life
By the time that they're old
They'll be free from strife
And for those who live joyful
When they are still small
Will find that the end
Isn't pleasant at all
And for those with a tad
Bit more luck than the rest
Their life will be even
Awakening to rest
With small hardships spread out
From day one to the end
But ultimately we all
Have set amounts of good fortune
From birth until death
We each get our portion

The threads of fate are disorganised and free,
                                   no confines of expectations to hold them,
          each living person a loom, weaving possibilities,
                                           intertwining chances,
    unpredictability,
                                                     and tragedy...

Not a single plan conforms to the threads of fate, and one day, what nobody will see coming, is a marvelous tapestry of fortune.

These slights only meet me
Like a stray kiss on the cheek
The kinds you dream of at 13,
Moments made to be stretched
And puttied minutes, days, years after
The best, the most incongruous and shameful,
The most despised,
The kind that curl your toes
And sour the stomach
At that introspective drunkenness
One foot grounded, one knee tingling numb
On the bar;
Oh, she came, oh she went
Those poetical revelations at the bar
Our best ideas on human suffering
Forgotten to write down,
Fuel for the manuscript, pressed
In dirt and blood, soul and spit
Another, another, whilst all others
Run for the rip tickets and defaming hope
Each lose a sneer and a cyclical hoping.
Never once, in love or lottery,
Do you suspect
Maybe lady luck is chasing other hands tonight
While you’re chasing those loses
And maybe, leave the lotto machine alone for a spell
Yeah,
That’ll teach it a thing or two.
But who hasn’t loved vice
Just a little too close?
Whispered a promise to appetite
Before lying down for good?
I loved her like everyone else,
And it’s still a single paystub dissolved
Without recourse or cause for revenge.
But she, vice, I can share with others
Being the only thing I’ve ever thought
Of stealing
Was a glance into that torn dress
Looking for a pattern
Or that wayward hand across my cheek.

What will I see,
When I turn to a ghost.

Things with no price tag,
Are worth the most.

A night sat under the sky,
No paper could ever buy.

In the mountains from tree to tree.
For fortune, not will I plea.

I'll keep my wealth in me,
In nature I'll ever be.

Delirium is sweet as honey
You are the victim of money
You paint your life on a paper
Yet everything becomes vapor
Heading on the road of youth
Is there a solution what soothes
Throught the fingers time melts
You are on your way, you knelt
The picture of Dali in your mind
The secret fortune, you must find
Hundred butterfiles are so brittle
Fortune is never firm, it is hidden
The flames are already engulfing
Now you must only confront it.

Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.

You've been dealt a hand,
as has everyone else.
Large numbers, nines and tens,
yet not a single king or queen.
Alas the winner before you is the Ace of Hearts,
your Holy Grail.