Jeremy McTavish is incredibly superstitious
and makes a Bombay-mix so incredibly delicious
that you could eat it all day
and no matter what I say
every Friday the thirteenth he makes up a bowl
and refuses to leave his house at all.
Instead, as a matter of acting precautionary
he takes time off from where he works in a dangerous factory
and not leaving his sofa watches Oprah on the tele
for fear of what might happen should he do anything to the contrary.
But last Friday the thirteenth when Oprah shared a touching story,
holding back his tears, he choked on a cashew nut (warning: this bit is gory)
and unable to breath, promptly expired on his sittee.
I’d like to say, “I told you so,” to the poor departed
But I’m not sure I have the right, and I’m rather broken hearted.
For in his strange behaviour on that inauspicious date
and the consequently tragic end that came to Jeremy, my mate,
was he proved to be correct about the dangers of the day
or was he wrong to have behaved in such a superstitious way?
Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
Picture from this interesting website about the origin of the Friday 13th superstition