Like a handful of coins dropped on the table
at a gambler's den
Drawing cards, posing as queens and kings
The aces stand distinct, yet only four
The joker still trumps all, how precise
Maybe it is what it has always meant
These rolling coins, they fall into the least accessible corners
Post winning them, one may need to search
That is too much of toil, far too much
I refuse to slide my hand beneath old immovable shelves
What lies there! Who knows, mostly dirt and grime
Laced with previous winner's curses of the inaccessible
I like my coins shiny, I hate those worn out ones
They have equal value, but they reek of gambling habits
I hate gambling, I don't play cards either
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