Untitled

Written in a hotel room in Coventry after too much gin and disappointment.

Cursed to choose the hand bereft,
We stumble, trip, and lose our way
Whenever Fate asks: "Right or left?"
Whether we say 'left' or 'right',
It matters not; for day by day,
We always fall for every sleight.

When Fate bids us to take a hand,
Though we may try to turn away,
Our destinies are build on sand.
There's no abstaining; she insists!
And once again, we're led astray
By what may lie within her fists.

'Left' or 'right', it's just the same,
And we will all like drunkards sway,
Confounded by her cruel game.
To the heavens we may cry, "Theft!"
- and still we live in disarray,
Cursed to choose the hand bereft
Whenever Fate asks: "Right or left?"