Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

Did I ever tell you how lucky you are? By Dr. Seuss. When I was quite young and quite small for my size, I met an old man in the desert of drive, and he sang me a song, I will never forget. At least, well, I haven't forgotten it yet. He sat in a terribly prickly place, but he sang with a sunny sweet smell on his face. When you think things are bad, when you feel sour and blue, when you start to get mad, you should do what I do. Just tell yourself, ducky, you're really quite lucky. Some people are much more. Oh, ever so much more. So muchly, much, much more. A lucky than you. Be glad you don't work on the bungle bung branch. That there are building across boober bay at bum ridge. If a troublesome whirl, all the peeper who in it, are troubled with troubles almost every minute. You ought to be thankful a whole heaping lot, for the places and people you are lucky you are not. Just suppose, for example, you lived in gazette, and got caught in that traffic on Z highway eat. Or suppose, just for instance, you live in Gaza, with your bedroom up here, and your bathroom up there. Suppose, just suppose you were poor, Herbie Hart, who has taken his thrum debut later apart. He never will get it together, I'm sure. He never will know if the gig or the gore, fits into the scruffs or the snacks or the snore. Yes, ducky, you're lucky you're not Herbie, heart, who has taken his thrum debut later apart. Think they work you too hard, think of poor ally sard. He has to mow grass in his uncle's backyard, and his quick growing grass, and it grows as he mows it. The faster he mows it, the faster he grows it, and all that his stingy old uncle will pay for his shoving that more around in that hay is the pitiless pay of two duke less a day, and Allie can't live on such privileged pay. So. He has to paint flag poles on Sundays and grooves. How lucky you are, you don't live in his shoes. And poor mister Bix, every morning X 6, poor mister bigs has his orphaned to fix. It doesn't seem fair. It just doesn't seem right, but his boyfriend just seems to go slump every night. It slumps in a heap, sadly needing repair, bick's figures is due to the local night air. It takes him all day to un slump it, and then the night air comes back and it slumps once again. So don't you feel blue? Don't get down in the dumps. You're lucky you don't have a borf in that slumps. And, while we are at it, consider the slots. The crumple horn wet footed green bearded slots, whose tail is entailed with unsolvable nuts. If he isn't much more worse off than you, I eat my umbrella, that's just what I'll do. And you're lucky, indeed, you don't ride on a camel to ride on a camel, you sit on a wamo. A whale you know is a sort of a saddle, held on by a button that's known as a faddle. And boy, if your old whale will battle gets loose, I'm telling you ducky, you gone like a goose. And poor mister Potter, tea crosser, I daughter, he has to cross tees, and he has to die eyes in an iron factory out in van nuys. Oh, the jobs people work at, out west, there is a hout how to bee watcher. His job is to watch. Is to keep both his eyes on the lazy town bee. A bee that is watched where wool Carter, you see. Well, he was, and he watched, but in spite of his watch, that bee didn't work any harder, not mount. Then somebody said, our OB watching man just isn't watching as hard as he can. He ought to be watched by another hot outer. The thing that we need is a bee watcher watcher. Well. The bee watcher watcher watched the bee watcher. He didn't watch well, so another how to had to come in as a watch watcher watcher. And today all the Houthis who live in haute are watching on watch watch or watching, watch, watch, watching the watcher, who's watching that bee, you're nano how to watch her. You're lucky, you see? And how fortunate you're not professor debris, who has spent the last 32 years, if you please. Trying to teach Irish ducks how to read juveniles. And think of the poor puffing pugel horn players, who have to parade down the pugel horn's dares. Every morning to wake up the prince of poo boken, it's awful how often their pools get broken. And oh, just suppose you were poor Harry hadle. Try as he will, he can't make any shadow. He thinks that, perhaps, something's wrong with his gears. And I think, by golly, there probably is. And the brothers bazoo, the poor brothers bazoo, suppose your hair grew, like theirs happened to do. You think you're unlucky? I'm telling you, ducky, some people are mostly, oh, ever so much. Muchly more and more more unlucky than you. And suppose that you lived in that force in France. Where the average young person just hasn't a chance to escape from the perilous path eating plants. But your pants are safe. You are fortunate guy. You ought to be shouting. How lucky am I? And, speaking of plants, you should be greatly gladish. You're not farmer filch and bergs, 17th radish. And your soul, so lucky you're not cookie gown, who lives by himself 90 miles out of town. In the ruins of rock, rock is rather run down. And your soul, so, so lucky, you're not a left sock, left behind by mistake, in the caverns of croc. Thank goodness for all of the things you are not. Thank goodness you're not something someone forgot, and left all alone in some punker ish place, like a rusty tin coat hanger, hanging in space. That's why I say ducky. Don't grumble. Don't stew. Some critters are much, much. O ever so much, much. So muchly much, much more unlucky than you.