Archive for the 'Poker Poems' Category

There’s a rumor going round that the best game in town is by invitation only. They screen and
You have to have cash and be willing to lose. They feed you and cater and keep your glass filled with booze

You think it’s a sin that they take advantage. You can have a fit and fly off in a rage.

The best defense to that line of attack is to host your own game in the garage out back.

It started as fun, just us four,
nickels and dimes, we wouldn’t
play for more.

It took just a few hand. It all
went up in smoke when Dave
drew out and started to joke.

The bet limit was off, we were
playing the pot, screaming and
yelling, a miserable lot.

We woke up the neighbors. They
joined us too. Now every Friday
we gather our crew.

We spin off the hours playing
dealer’s choice. We play just as
hard but with a lot less noise.

Burning and turning . . . Oh what
a life! I thought when I grew up I
might be a wife. Instead I stay up
with the boys all night, dealing
the cards until it’s daylight.

If I could start over, what would I
choose? Secretary, waitress, or
teacher, the thought gives me the
blues.

I’ve visited and listened and made
money too. Pushed chips
to everyone, met Henry (he’s new).
I’ll just pick up the deck and
shuffle again, finish my shift, and
leave with a grin.

I’ve got the best seat in the house
and making money’s no sin. I’ll
come back tomorrow. I’ve got a
sure win.

Where do they come from? The endless line.
Waiting in the Queue ’til the end of time.

They reach in their pockets for a chance to play.
Matching wits and skills to survive the foray.

They stack up their chips and then give them
away. What the hell, Brother, they came to play.

I’ve just won a Rolls, a diamond ring
too, that Rolex in the pot will look
great on you know who.

I’ve made more in an hour than I’ve
made in 5 years, the deck’s running
over me and bringing the boys to
tears.

Their mumbling and crying, “She can’t
play a lick!” Well, it could be true . . .
but I love to hear the boys sing the
Pot Limit Blues.

Oh, woe is me. I’ve been here for days. I was hog-tied and drug in and forced to stay. I’ve lost thousands at least, give or take a few. My banker will kill me. What shall I do?

I make a straight on the flop – drawn out on the end. Then deuces full – killed once again. In agony I scream, “Change the deck, change the game!” Hand after hand the result is the same.

I hate all the dealers, the Poker God too. I’ve cussed everything ’til the air is blue. I’ll play one more hand, then I may start to win. If not . . . what the hell, I’ll just buy in again.