Luckily, I’m not superstitious!

Are you regarded by young folk today, With something like eerie suspicion? Because of that obsessive habit you have, Of pandering to superstition? If, for example, you see a black cat, Crossing your path just ahead, Might they think it odd to react, as you do, With quite inexplicable dread? And what of your other strange habits, as well, Like hopefully tapping on wood? They must think you’re barmy if you really hope, That’s going to do any good! And on the first of each month when you utter aloud: ‘Rabbits,’ three times in succession. Is it a sign that it’s long past the time, For your first therapy session? And what of those pinches of salt that you toss, Over your shoulder in hope? Does it appear that you have mystic powers, Or just that you act like a dope? Then if, to your horror, a mirror you smash, And act like your heart’s been attacked. It could be construed by some doubters that you, Are really the one that is cracked! ‘Don’t walk under ladders,’ you firmly advise, With a most ominous frown. Is it then better to step off the kerb, And have someone’s car knock you down? And that old rabbit’s foot charm on your chain, Is it to bring you good luck? The same happy fortune, one’s tempted to ask, As that of the three-legged Buck? Perhaps one should sympathise with your sad plight, And hope that the problem will pass. So I’m going to drink to that wonderful day, And, just for luck, break my damned glass! Robert Ben-Nathan,

Denham, Bucks.

...and Limerick

Since Jeremy’s calling the shots, The Party’s come out in red spots. The spin doctor said, With a shake of his head: ‘It’s a very bad case of the Trots!’

Bob Richards, Bournemouth.