Are you what is called a lucky man? Well, you are sad every day. Each day has its great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were trembling for the health of one who is dear to you, today you fear for your own; tomorrow it will be an anxiety about money, the next day the slanders of a calumniator, the day after the misfortune of a friend; then the weather, then something broken or lost, then a pleasure for which you are reproached by your conscience or your vertebral column; another time, the course of public affairs. Not to mention heartaches. And so on. One cloud is dissipated, another gathers. Hardly one day in a hundred of unbroken joy and sunshine. And you are of that small number who are lucky! As for other men, stagnant night is upon them.
Victor Hugo
He had white horses
And ladies by the score
All dressed in satin
And waiting by the door
What a lucky man he was
White lace and feathers
They made up his bed
A gold covered mattress
On which he was laid
What a lucky man he was
He went to fight wars
For his country and his king
Of his honor and his glory
The people would sing
What a lucky man he was
A bullet had found him
His blood ran as he cried
No money could save him
So he laid down and he died
What a lucky man he was
Words & Music by Mike Power 