The Word Called Destiny

I feel like a windblown feather in my life I have no say Where I come from and where I go to destiny decide the way What will happen come tomorrow what will the future hold for me? Leave all that to fate and fortune and the thing called destiny. In the slum end of the city where pauper is the common name And to suffer from hunger pain is part of the living game Lived a very lucky fellow oh how lucky can one be He won one third of a million in the football lottery. He now live in posh suburbia and is financially secure A far cry from grime and squalor and the sad haunts of the poor With a rolls royce in his garage poor boy he's not poor no more Destiny did him a favour lifted him right from the floor. And then there was the high street Doctor under worked and over paid He was envied as most rich are People thought he had it made Yet the Doctor felt unhappy and a strange sadness in him grew But destiny done him no favour over loosened his mental screw. Fetched his gun one sunday morning when the sun shone in the sky And pink roses bloomed in his garden in the prime of sweet July Cocked the gun barrel towards his temple at the right side of his head Pulled the trigger then a loud bang and the Doc he fell down dead. For every human on this Planet every woman, child and man Destiny of seven letters for each has a special plan It can make the rich unhappy and raise the poor from poverty And decide on each human's future the famed thing called 'Destiny'.