Fingers Crossed

With fingers crossed and touching cords of wood

And spitting three times turned against the left

And crossing just exactly as I should

To Father, Son, the Holy Ghost... the cleft

Dread thing who listens to my claims

Or prideful aspirations, it conspires

Against all outcomes cheerful to my aims,

And so inverts the sum of my desires,

And gleefully emits its evil snorts

And rubs its claws with endless great delight

And shouts sarcastic insults of all sorts...
But, this, my complex prophylactic rite 

Allows me safely to assert a fact

About the present or a future act.