I knock on wood before I brag, Carry old luck in a coat I’ve had. Same worn shoes, same backdoor knock, I don’t call it faith—I call it taking stock. They say it’s foolish, say it’s all in my head, But my shoulders drop when the words are said. If the mind needs rhythm before it decides, I’ll tap the table—let the fear subside. I cross my heart, not asking why, I’ve learned calm doesn’t need a lie. Little habits, soft refrain, They don’t change fate—they quiet the brain. I don’t think the socks make destiny bend, They just help the trembling come to an end. When the world won’t promise how it goes, I’ll hum a rule my body knows. We don’t think the ritual runs the show, It just tells the nerves it’s safe to go. Knock on wood, cross your heart, Wear the socks, play your part. Tiny rituals, big relief— Jazz hands for belief. Not control, not prophecy— Just pocket-sized confidence for me. If the odds won’t speak my name— I’ll cue the body, not the brain. If the future won’t explain— Then rhythm steps in, just the same. Knock on wood, laugh it through, Do what steady hands would do. Call it foolish, call it art— It keeps the panic from the start. Speaking frankly, if it works, don’t ask why.
