'A ticket for the lottery <br />I've purchased every week,' said she <br /> 'For years a score <br />Though desperately poor am I, <br />Oh how I've scrimped and scraped to buy <br /> One chance more. <br /> <br />Each week I think I'll gain the prize, <br />And end my sorrows and my sighs, <br /> For I'll be rich; <br />Then nevermore I'll eat bread dry, <br />With icy hands to cry and cry <br /> And stitch and stitch.' <br /> <br />'Tis true she won the premier prize; <br />It was of formidable size, <br /> Ten million francs. <br />I know, because the man who sold <br />It to her splenically told <br /> He got no thanks. <br /> <br />The lucky one was never found, <br />For she was snugly underground, <br /> And minus breath; <br />And with that ticket tucked away, <br />In some old stocking, so they say, <br /> She starved to death.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lottery-ticket/
