How many numbers can one gambler count
When wearing a crown, I’d say any amount
But he is a fool who’ll request a memento
And cross all his friends, making them foes
He’ll be unrelenting and seek a new hat
But rumors will stir, he’s too exotic for that
There’s no chance that his soul is headed up north
Heavenwardness, Godly haven, so forth
‘Cause he’s mean as a bull with secrets to hide
with his bony, white hand, he’ll push you aside.
He’ll float past the crowd on his way to the top
Then have a repast before he really will drop
To the bottom of hell or wherever it is
That bad people go, and it ain’t just show biz!
He’ll stay there and rot like bad people do
And no one will cry or ever be blue.
©2022 CBialczak Poetry