No oracle did e'er prognosticate thy future or its fortunes grim convey; nor did some wizen'd sage to thee relate in faith that life was gonna be this way. 'Tis true, thy prospects hold no cause for mirth: Thou feel'st thou lack'st the speed to race ahead of all thy woes and leave thee in the clear; yet when cruel Fate hath once more ruined thy day, thy week, thy month or e'en thy year — sweet friend, they shall be e'ermore there for thee for thou, in turn.
