A circle of colored boys are playing poker in the middle
Of the dormitories where loud shouts of shattered beakers
Probably crushed by the physicists’ undergraduates are heard

One of them, the choir boy with a cappuchino tuxedo
Revealed his best yet, gambled what he have been keeping in the
Comparments of his Honda Accord: photographs he have taken
From Afghanistan: brown backgrounds and cements bathed with blood
He swaps the aces with jokers, choked the nerves he served
As soon as he distorted the rules like printing Jenna Jameson’s front
In new angles, and slap it on the world section of New York Times paper
Now wrapping the eyes of his two other opponents dazed in the action
Of what the choir boy has just done. Panic! “He’s a demonic”, they thought
They rip his sleeves rather than a stack of bogus because their focus
Were in his seven Rolexes each displaying its own time zone,
8:08 in North Carolina and 5:08 in Hollywood –If only
They could expel futures out of these advances like fortune cookies from
China Palace, they would have not outlined their blindsights upon
These black market products- victorius! glorius! magnificent! Oh! Almost
Hallelujah that they could not believe how the choir boy started stripping
Their alliance out without even asking the permission of winning
And by the end of the session, Mr. Caucasian here asks if he could join
The pack but the colored boys just refuse and say,
“We already have enough cream mixed in our coffee”.
And Mr. Caucasian, just sings Ave Maria