Published: 28 March 2025

You gotta be lucky to be in love

You gotta be lucky to be in love.
Bet on the hot hand, roll the dice,
play hard to be twice as nice.
Cut a two, make it hearts,
you gotta make the bet if you want the part;

you gotta be lucky to be in love.

You gotta be lucky to be in love.
It ain’t heaven that drops from above,
you gotta work to make it play,
by bright night or darkest day.
Be the sun, be the stars,
bring it home in moonshine jars;

you gotta be lucky to be in love.

You gotta be sweet,
you gotta be sour.
A savoury treat,
not some candy ass flower.
You gotta do more than pretend
luck’s your best friend,
you gotta ante up, lay it on the line,
be more than a one day Valentine;

you gotta be lucky to be in love.

Sweep the table, clear the felt,
be amazed by the cards you’re dealt.
You’re on a streak, you’re the play,
be the biggest winner every day;

you gotta be lucky to be in love.

Keep it groovy,
like an old time movie
girl meets boy, boy meets girl,
you both win the world;

you gotta be lucky to be in love.

More Poetry:

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

The killing and dismemberment of Osiris

Gods are murdered in ritual,
with family in attendance.
If not as executioners, then moral support.
The god must be torn apart
thrown into all that is and is not.
Sister brides always grieve
journey to join the god together,
as he has always been put back together.

Mom on deck

Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?

Related

Paper time

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

read more
Radish

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

read more

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