I don’t let my bed rest beneath my hat and I stay careful not to step on a crack
I refuse to spilt the pole when walking together and maybe read too much into finding a feather
Is my misfortune a result of the times I’ve forgotten
or do I wear a hood woven with threads that are rotten?
Have my good dreams come from the chicken foot that hangs above me? Could the bad ones come from the ill gotten rabbits foot that dangles beneath my key ring?
As seasons have passed I’ve found these superstitions mean nothing to me
I’ve reaped what I’ve sewn, a tailor in the making and I’ve opened my own exclusive haberdashery.