[Friggatriskaidekaphobia: fear of Friday the 13th]
It’s a silly case of superstition.
A date undeserving of suspicion.
UNLESS: you’re camping, or hiking, or in a boat,
or having sex, or putting on your coat,
or jogging, or swimming, or blissfully sleeping,
or shrieking, or eating, or thinking, or weeping
in the woods, or a hospital, or on a lake,
or in Manhattan, or out in space.
AND if you’re a doctor, or nurse, or jogger,
or hitchhiker, or driver, or graverobber,
or a man, or a mom, or an alcoholic,
or camp counselor, or teenager out for a frolic,
or really a human of most any kind….
then this date is a bit unlucky, you’ll find.
It might end in death by decapitation,
or by machete, or by castration,
or by getting stabbed with a scalpel or flare
or cleaver or bone saw or fist or chair.
You may also drown, or fall to your death,
or in some other way soon take your last breath.
It’ll end quite badly if you fail at the task
of eluding that guy in the hockey mask.
But besides that? Not at all unlucky. Stop being ridiculous.