I wasn't satisfied with the roses, the Belgian chocolates, and the champagne. So I wrote her a poem.
Lucky Me --- a skeptical sonnet.
Let foolish others deck their arms
with bracelets hung with lucky charms;
or clutch, by superstitious habit
the foot that didn't help the rabbit;
triadeskaphobic, think obscene
those harmless numerals, 13;
ward off a witch by throwing salt.
They're idiots. It's not their fault.
I need no superstitious ways
to give me luck through all my days:
for all good fortune must attend
the man who has you for his friend.
So long as you, my love, will be
my wife --- then lucky, lucky me.
Edited by Dr Adequate, : No reason given.