Sorry for the delay in posting this poem. I’ve been dealing with my Spring allergies and spent much of the past few days drowsing. I’m also running out of poems to post, since I haven’t written much of anything this year yet. Anyway, if you haven’t heard of “The Ovarian Lottery,” it’s a term coined by Warren Buffet. He says he “won the ovarian lottery” by being born when and where he was and with the mental abilities that made it possible for him to take advantage of it.
The Ovarian Lottery
Born this day, a screaming brat—
A boy? A girl? It matters not.—
whose life is but a spark of breath
that stretches forward into death.
Will this breath be first and last?
Will a dozen decades pass?
Will a century grow old
before its story has been told?
Will it live a life of joy?
Will its hatred overflow?
Will love come its merry way?
Will it be someone else’s slave?
Will it crave its daily bread?
Will it have a gilded bed?
Will it never suffer want?
Will it sleep beneath a cot?
Will it have a temperament
suited to its environment?
Will its full potential rise
to but a fraction of its size?
Where and when this brat was born
determines much of what will come;
the rest results from DNA
and all the things that come its way.
Some have luck and win it all.
Some have none and drown in toil.
But none of them is in control
of when and where they have been born.
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