For my friend who feels the fun in life is passing her by, for loved ones who scream that life isn't fair, for myself who thinks he can't do anything quite good enough this week, I offer the centuries-old wisdom of the poem below. (It is brought to wonderful musical life by Dead Can Dance on the CD I've provided a link to above.)
Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles
What various paths are followed in distributing honours and possessions
She gives awards to some and penitent's cloaks to others
When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles
Sometimes she robs the chief goatherd of his cottage and and goatpen
And to whomever she fancies the lamest goat has born two kids
When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles
Because in a village a poor lad has stolen one egg
He swings in the sun and another gets away with a thousand crimes
When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles
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