Payments due and debts, racing bets that never win,the roulette spin,unlucky dice
and blood that runs as cold as ice.
The gambling man goes rambling on,against the odds,playing slots,losing lots and never breaking even.

Even when he pulls four Kings, someone shows a Royal flush,
at a push I’d say he’s not a man who should or can play games of chance where any chance he has to win,end as lost chances in the rubbish bin,
the loser’s tin,he gets the pot of not a lot,no golden prize,look in his eyes,
despair and gloom
and in his empty room,TV hocked,door tight locked 
he sits
tries to slit his wrists and fails,hammers more nails in his head yet still he wishes red came up on number twenty three,
he doesn’t see the futility
of the spinning wheel that really is not real at all,
but an imprint on his tortured mind and the same goes for the three of a kind,another hat trick.

Just a sickness not the deal and nothing tastes as good as throwing double six and tasting blood,
all good
or so he thinks
so he drinks to hide his shame of not a penny to his name
and tomorrow will borrow another dime
to try another time
to change his luck.


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