When the gypsy read my palm, She traced down some line's crease, As it splintered and divided, And then looked me in the eyes: "Your future is a bell curve, Which the same as hers and his and hers And if you do not stress it It will not swerve. It will remain but a bell curve With a singular ring, Nothing more than a ding. Whereas if you attempt to hold it back, Blockading its track It's timbre won't crack, Just course into a cauldron Whose call drones a cacophony of strings" And so I looked her in her eyes And to her earthen surprise I said: "Yes, Yet you sit in this seat And live through others' lives Then take your pennies to the teller To calculate the size. Another seer who's a eunuch And every eunuch lies. What's the other option For a bosom that denies?" "I see you point. I understand," She said still holding my hand. And thus I anointed Lady Jesus With my oils from the sand.