A Poem...an ode to a poker player

Making mountains of money,
Is this player's wish;
When he sits at the felt
With a plethura of fish.

The opponents are not crafty,
They are playing much too loose;
They are beating pocket pairs
With the lowly seven-deuce.

This player smiles a little bit,
He sees making many a buck;
But the gods have other ideas
And he runs into bad luck.

His pocket pairs get beaten,
His queens can't beat rivered Jacks and Eights;
His lovely set of kings
Are beaten by a runner runner straight.

Still this player is determined,
He knows his luck will turn around;
He now knows how his opponents play
And that riches will soon be found.

He starts to win some hands,
And he hits a major rush;
He wins back his chips and then some
With his lovely red royal flush.

His reads become like laser beams,
His raises get respect,
His suspicions of players hands
Are usually correct.

He starts to get the best of it,
His stack is getting buff;
His opponents fold their hands
When he only has a bluff.

As his opponents shake their heads,
This player goes for the kill;
Which is why playing poker
is clearly a game of skill.


The end.