by Milan Bulovic, 1971
Transcribed from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l23K3OLc1Es
One afternoon in Jake's Saloon gamblers were in the back.
A breed of men in a smoky den, all with a losing knack.
For three straight days they made their plays, wearily betting their dough,
Until there came that final game, and the slicker's measured blow.
It told on their faces, a spread of aces took every buck they had.
And back at the chips, with grinning lips, sat the slicker, just a lad.
The brim of his hat hid eyes of a cat, his skill by some demon sent.
Cleaning out gentry, with sleights elementary, leaving them luck to lament.
By the breaking dawn the players were gone, the slicker alone in his chair,
Was turning up aces in peculiar places and fanning the deck with flair.
Beyond the glow of the lamplight low, a voice to the slicker said
"Listen my son, although you've won, ne'er to these cards be wed.
Some day he'll come, that sharpie dumb, when stakes in life are high,
Then bet what you will, an infallible skill, his fingers will fast your fly.
With a sudden stroke he'll leave you broke, ruined where you sit.
A better master, dealing disaster, stacking folly in your mit.
Old am I, now dim of eye, no longer fit for the game.
But I've been on top with the best of the lot, and wagered my way to fame.
When I was young, one ladder's rung, I cleaved to cards and dice.
To lady luck, and her easy buck, and her bosom made of ice.
I spent my youth with rogues uncouth, yet mingled with millionaires.
But I stuck to the men with a gambling yearn, learning to deal bottoms in pairs.
Before you were born, I heard the horn, of the Natchez on a run.
With the best of boys, manouevred ploys, and every trick known was done.
I remember well that lifelong spell, that steamboat of my past,
Where spinning wheels and double deals told the world of our caste.
We tossed the broads and talked of frauds on that floating city of chance,
Giving odds on a fighter, bucking the tiger, living our lives in a trance.
Rouged up ladies, bound for Hades, how they shilled their way to my heart,
Fluttering lashes, on the decks of the Natchez, plying treachery into an art.
Sir Conrad Conte, now he threw three-card Monte, there was a man of precision.
Dropping that queen deftly between, making a mockery of vision.
Came Dandy Lee with a rolling pea, imploring where it went,
Doing it slow just for the show, baiting a sporting gent.
There was Mickey the lame, of fair old fame, and Lopez from the Rio Grande,
Frisco Pete of the Bay's elite, and Duke with a velvet hand.
Old nifty Ned, his confederate red, that tricky mechanic Sid,
Deacon Dan, the blackjack man, and of course the mysterious kid.
They were all aboard, by the devil adored, the Natchez with anchors away,
Floating downstream on moonlit beam, her tables all in play.
In the grand salon a game was on, a crowd like never before.
The stakes were high, then by and by, the players, they dwindled to four.
Across from me, a stranger be, a man of my profession.
On either side, drunk with pride, two moguls with obsession.
The timber tycoon was wiped out soon, in tow a cattle king,
Then a thousand head went in the red on a suicidal fling.
Betting like crazy with logic hazy, scribbling his name on a note,
'til nothing remained but a loss so pained and the regret of all he wrote.
One more deal made him reel, he was frantic to recover,
But I brought him down and took his crown by means he couldn't discover.
Now with fortune amassed there came at last my sorrow with a stranger,
That final run where only one survives a pending danger.
I gauged him keen trying to glean the merit of his skill,
Weighing the risk, riffling brisk, setting him for the kill.
With gloved hand limp, he cut to my crimp, this stranger I overrated.
The game was draw, without a flaw, I dealt the cards elated.
Beneath my thumb the rhythmic hum was sounding his defeat.
To myself a deuce, which would reproduce, and make my hand complete.
With four of a kind I didn't mind my rival's haughty air.
His marble face, his icy grace, I'd sentenced to despair.
The moment arrived, I feigningly sighed, and called in winning style.
Then leaning to me in eerie glee, he put his hand upon the pile.
In a frozen hush a royal flush was spread for all to see.
That mysterious kid, by holdout hid, made this derelict of me.
So, my son, there's always one who'll come along your way,
At rainbows end he'll heaven bend to make your blackest day."
Now the old man's story of gambling glory, whether it fact or fable,
Fell on an ear that didn't hear the wisdom nor its label.
The slicker sitting, his boredom knitting, by spreading a fancier fan,
Mulled the chatter of bygone matter and said to the aged man:
"Well, old timer, perhaps there's primer in your windbag of palaver,
Or whisky leaning has you dreaming on that there last rung of your ladder.
If you had a stake, I'd give you a break, and have you a game that's real,
Then you could tell how you once fell to the world's greatest deal."
Now the old man's face showed no trace of the insolence just spoken,
But with an urge he couldn't purge, he revealed a shiny token.
"Alright sonny, I have no money to pit against your coffer,
But this diamond pure can well procure that greatest deal you offer.
'tis the very ring the cattle king lost at the game that night,
A precious rock I'd never hawk no matter what the flight.
I'll match your stone, if you be prone, against what's on the table,
And in the ride let luck decide just who's better able."
Smitten by the jewel, now pawned for duel, glistening on the table's green,
The slicker cut deep in the squared-off heap and with a flourish he turned a queen.
"Now, old bard, match that card, and you'll beat the best in town."
Then, nonchalantly, he gallantly tossed the queen face down.
The old man nodded, by the lingo prodded, stated, "I'll do even more.
I'll find your three in a cutting spree and make the total four."
In rapid succession, by luck or deception, he cut the deck in thirds,
And on every pile, in regal style, lay the promise of his words.
On the right, a stunning sight, the portrait of a queen.
To the left, neatly cleft, a second in the scheme.
In the centre, too, without a clue, the last of the ladies was there.
Then over she went, towards the others sent, placed face down with care.
The promise breached, the old man reached for his jewel and all he'd won,
But the slicker fast made a grasp on the move as it was done.
"Wait, old dad, your eyes are bad, look again and see my king."
With a whole card switch, he made his pitch for the clutched and wagered ring.
The old man's smile held deadly guile, his silence told the story.
The slicker enraged, his mark misgauged, had lost the captured quarry.
He overturned the cards concerned and glared at what he feared.
By legerdemain, now kings held reign, the queens had disappeared.
The old man rose in stately pose and turning a jaunty heel,
He bid "farewell" to the one who fell to the world's greatest deal.