The Crook and the Cards

By Jessica Scott

I came upon the grave buried among the dying leaves

Underneath the sycamore tree where I had gone to grieve.

A man stood there in front of that grave, hat clutched in his hand,

Face a somber mask of pain, the payment that death demands.

“She was the sweetest little thing that you could ever dream.

She always thought I could be saved, that I could be redeemed.”

He turned to me and held my gaze, his eyes a burning blue,

“No one wins the black-dealed cards, and the devil claims his due.

Be careful, son, when making bets that you may have to pay.

A losing hand and one bad bluff can cost you much dismay.

Never bet with Satan, my friend, no matter how he looks.

He always wins through back door means, with words he is a crook.

Before you know what you have done he’ll take more than your life,

The only thing worth living for, the love of your sweet wife.

He’ll tell her what the darkness brings, her soul he’ll drive insane.

He’ll put the gun into her hand, the bullet in her brain.

Don’t ever play the devil, son, you’ll never win the bet.

He has an evil plan, that one, he wants you in his debt.

But should you choose to call his bluff, to play that game of sin,

Don’t ever hold the better cards, make sure the devil wins.”

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