Right from birth, he was a gambler,
either he dies or his mom.
With the doctor act'n as the dealer,
that was the best bet he'd won.
Oh! What a fine lad>
bore in a gamble his mother was sold,
but his life was worth its weight in gold.
His papa seldom win,
was always at a loss.
And when he does, drinks to the dust bin,
with money not well spent to control the dross.
Never thinking of the son he had>
he found his kid at the front gate daring the autumn chill,
he smiled and decided to name him bill.
Bill was 10 when the casino welcomed him,
behind his papa as he dealt.
His papa went cold, his eyes grew dim,
and bill shared what his papa felt.
His papa fell, the fall was bad>
before help came, his papa had died,
so little Bill cried.
Bill inherited his papa foes,
so he went chasing what his papa lost.
To pay back the money he owes,
he knew what the act would cost.
By mid-night, Bill left the casino sad>
just like his papa he failed,
to do the deed, so blithely hailed.
He lived through heaving lungs and heavy debts,
and the owners were never kind.
He finally made mental bets,
and lost his precious mind.
Losing made him mad>
with each bet, he lost it all,
with no family or friend to call.
Bill was on the table again with faith,
in a game when all hopes for luck.
He was dealt a pair of aces and eights,
the winner's pot was a million buck.
His adrenaline rushed just like his dad>
but unlike his papa, he won instead,
and was shot at the back of the head.
Alexander Onoja
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aces-and-eights-the-dead-man-s-hand/
