(2) Hit Me:
To be thrown to world's spice, like the casino dice, seems to great entice. One from deuce to ace, a pointless race.
Lay the card free, hit me. Strike the flint, and spike my rent, the eyes are snake, and I've no cake"
(Man): "Hit me"
She bit the brick, she's to get the sick, she spun, and won, and got none. It's a shame, in a land so tame, to slay the sentinel soul, the dame.
(Younger man): "Black Jack!"
Spade Seven, so great, fade to time. Diamond King, voices to sing, and bells to ring. Heart Ace, art of love's face, carts to trace. Club Flush, arctic to slush, and ocean rush.
(Machine dinging)
Slots, so many plots, causing blood clots, all one is to see is sun spots. Coins, to kick in the groins, and a die to cry.
(Old smoker lady): "I won!"
Hit me, get me, I could care less, you fail to impress. Hit the machine, smack it clean, I assure, it's lifeless eye and soul, is not your goal, but pay thy toll.
Chance, is by my, and your stance, whether one will sing or dance, chance, stabs like a lance. In the casino joint, that thought stands on point, a morality metaphor? Or a locked door?
YOU ARE READING
Cervical Cogitationum
PoetryTranslates to "Pillow of Thoughts" in Latin. An autobiographical poetry conceptual album. Tells the story of my past, and reasonings for introversion. I seek nothing but to tell a story, and to get what has gone untold off of my chest. The pillow of...
