The day of the tournament Fat Eddie woke up

on some drunks passed out in a pile, squeezing his head

he felt more rested than ever that day.  “Laying on life!”

Shouted a shot up target that fanned cards in circles

at his sides, “Bet on yourself!” he flung down a board

with pieces and winning potential, but the game was slanted

and tricky, because money taken and offered spends alike.

 

As Fat Eddie would say, “Dumb is all the rage”

and he was right more often than not by far,

so suckers dropped shekels by the boatload

at harvest time, but in the interim he walked around open

to the long con, risky back-table hoodlums

offering nothing for nothing, but she was a dainty

taunt at a ball, and his hands were awful sticky.

 

Thin Lizzie was a whisp, foil for breezy whims

to claim with a backhand, wound tight like a clock

sprung up and over, she knew fat Eddie

was false in his play, that he had no money

just like her, but they play-acted all week

spending their charm, losing in the fantasy

making love all day, then they went home.