Heterodoxy
So-called Lady Luck, post your impulse rounds:
Tell where next goes your famed Midas touch;
Where in the days near shall your wild leg lead
The favored donees of your capricious search?
Against your impulse-urged turns I got a gripe:
For men your random wanderings widely hype,
Yet you little care that faithful mortals adore
Your all-clandestine cycle and surprise galore.
And as for your epoch-honored bestowments:
Say what obscure merit-scores you rely upon
To amply pamper one and sorely deny another,
Spurning toiling orphans to gift a nabob's son.
False-hallowed Mistress of Fate I fault, again:
Now reward fans who rock themslves insane
As they pay hugely appeasing homage to you,
Pleading that you apportion many and not few.
Until you grant lowly lips that crave your gold,
I said and again will say that you're not a god!
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