My cousin, Fred is superstitious;
He walks not under ladders,
And tosses over the shoulder, salt,
If spilt, as though it matters.

On every thirteenth, when it’s Friday,
He stays home in the sack,
And on a sidewalk never, ever
Treads upon a crack.

A black cat’s path he will not cross,
No matter where it leads him,
Four-leaf clovers and rabbits’ feet
He carries, in case he needs ’em.

They have preserved him well, he thinks,
From unexpected woes —
He still has his right arm, one eye
and six or seven toes.