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Manufactured Chance
The best-laid plans o' mice an' men. Gang ait a gley
Robert Burns

You cook up schemes and wily plans,
regardless of others' needs;
then complain
when they just don't work out...
for you this sad heart bleeds.

You contrive to make it all appear
conveniently coincidental,
but others see right through you, Sir,
nothing you do is accidental.

Every planned coincidence,
each manufactured 'chance',
is designed to lead your players
on an orchestrated dance.

But you're a lousy choreographer,
a puny puppeteer.
Your puppets are dancing to their own drums
and you've done your dash, I fear.

By cherryk

© 2018 cherryk (All rights reserved)


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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Every Planned Coincidence (challenge has been closed)

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