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When the gypsy read my palm, |
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She traced down some line's crease, |
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As it splintered and divided, |
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And then looked me in the eyes: |
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"Your future is a bell curve, |
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which the same as hers and his and hers |
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and if you do not stress it |
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it will not swerve. |
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It will remain but a bell curve |
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with a singular ring, |
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nothing more than a ding. |
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Whereas if you attempt to hold it back, |
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blockading its track |
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it's timbre won't crack, |
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just course into a cauldron |
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whose call drones a cacophony of strings" |
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And so I looked her in her eyes |
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and to her earthen surprise |
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I said: "Yes, |
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yet you sit in this seat |
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and live through others' lives |
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then take your pennies to the teller |
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to calculate the size. |
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Another seer who's a eunuch |
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and every eunuch lies. |
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What's the other option |
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for a bosom that denies?" |
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"I see you point. I understand," |
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she said still holding my hand. |
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And thus I anointed Lady Jesus |
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with my oils from the sand. |
