Foolish of me, I broke a mirror
And that maketh my lucky days fewer.
Woe! I gain seven years bad luck
And in my misery and misfortune I am stuck.
I summarize my feelings in profanities.
Why God! Oh, the humanity.
I count the pieces shattered; thirty-two.
This large omen doth make my face turn blue.

"Relax," claims my friend,
"This isn't bad, it's not the end."
Words of comfort he doth spake,
Into my mind this I should take:
"A mirror did break by my Uncle Bob,
But he did not weep, nor cry, nor did he sob."

"Really?" I ask,
In this hope may I bask.

"Nay, he hath broken a mirror
And seven years bad luck he did not suffer."
Then my friend went on to say,
"He was hit by a bus the very next day."