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Robert W Service - Lottery Ticket
Work rating: Low

`A ticket for the lottery
I`ve purchased every week,` said she
               `For years a score
Though desperately poor am I,
Oh how I`ve scrimped and scraped to buy
               One chance more.

Each week I think I`ll gain the prize,
And end my sorrows and my sighs,
               For I`ll be rich;
Then nevermore I`ll eat bread dry,
With icy hands to cry and cry
               And stitch and stitch.`

`Tis true she won the premier prize;
It was of formidable size,
               Ten million francs.
I know, because the man who sold
It to her splenically told
               He got no thanks.

The lucky one was never found,
For she was snugly underground,
               And minus breath;
And with that ticket tucked away,
In some old stocking, so they say,
               She starved to death.
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