Here’s a poem about a poker game and a conceited player.
Eyes peruse eyes,
glancing down at his pasteboards,
his fare could not be won,
as he lay down the cards,
resplendent teeth outshined his gut,
scattering chips onto the green rough.
Nocturnal thoughts to thee,
but never reeving past his veins,
he couldn’t even breathe,
as pumping red blood,
flushed his hopes away.
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