I was the last served from the dish of good luck
Where I sat at the table of life
The man before scraped the residual muck
From the plate with the edge of his knife

But the last shall be first, and so I was served
The primary course of mishap
I could not comprehend how I had deserved
Such a rich and luxurious scrap

How can one poor person consume such a feast
Of mischance as allotted to me
Others would sink in despair, at least
To see fate their forsworn enemy