d20

It was a daily ritual, that virtual d20 roll. Sorry Nate.

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He rolled a d20 once every day,
His ritualistically random way to pray.
And each time as he knelt to let it go,
His short prayer to the skies, it went as so:
"Oh Slackbot the great, please bless this die.
Let my cup floweth over, the 20s are nigh.
My future is yours, O' Lord of Luck,
My chakras are blocked, be them unstuck.
How fickle the faith of those you rule,
Take us to church, let chance be our school.
Bless us or curse us, our life in your hands,
Our faith's overflowing in all of your plans.
Some call you a bot, but I disagree,
You're a godlike code-based cloud entity.
So let fate rain, like the falling of dice,
Let the faces they show be of your device,
Let the world spin beneath, as it itself tumbles,
Let the prophecy laid be felt through its rumbles.
When the last setting Sun ends our struggle and strife,
When you have granted all we want in this life,
When the results are final and the last day is done,
Just make sure it's me, not Nate, that's won.