I Found a Four-Leaf Clover

I found a four-leaf clover

and was happy with my find,

but with time to think it over,

I’ve entirely changed my mind.

I concealed it in my pocket,

safe inside a paper pad,

soon, much swifter than a rocket,

my good fortune turned to bad.

       I smashed my fingers in a door,

       I dropped a dozen eggs,

       I slipped and tumbled to the floor,

       a dog nipped both my legs,

       my ring slid down the bathtub drain,

       my pen leaked on my shirt,

       I barked my shin, I missed my train,

       I sat on my dessert.

I broke my brand-new glasses,

and I couldn’t find my keys,

I stepped in spilled molasses,

and was stung by angry bees.

When the kitten ripped the curtain,

and the toast burst into flame,

I was absolutely certain

that the clover was to blame.

       I buried it discreetly

       in the middle of a field,

       now my luck has changed completely,

       and my wounds have almost healed.

       If I ever find another,

       I will simply let it be,

       or I’ll give it to my brother—

       he deserves it more than me.