Thirteen doesn't have a door,
not a window, nor a floor,
but inside there's a family,
I hear them braying endlessly.

They snort beneath a broken clock,
it's face gives disapproving looks;
"Why are we so down on our luck.
  What sorcery has run amok?"

Umbrellas open in the hall,
hints about their careless fall.
Upturned horseshoes on the table,
should leave no doubts about this fable.

Overt belief in superstition,
is not a very modern position.
But it's cruel to think that others' ills,
are solely brought upon themselves.