What misty-eyed premonition
would the fortuneteller sing
If I had had a coin to spare
or an offering to bring?
Would she read my palm inside my eyes
and tell me tales of riches
Or would she see a tarried life
From petticoat to britches?
The future holds no hapless wench in vogue
Yet favours her who makes her own life misery and
conspires to remain fixed in the firmament.
Should I then whence I came be sent to alter
the time I spent wandering? No. I’d rather perish now
than trade my trek for your solid ground.