The accumulator calumniator:
A spender in dark mottled splendour
Which has coined a thousand phrases
Drops — never has it fallen so far.
Caught, it tic-tacs forwards
On crenulated tipster toes
Blind clothed in well-groped garb,
Seemingly heaven cent,
Dimed if it don’t
And dimmed if it does
It plucks from thin air a dare
That pays as it plays —
You have to be in it to win it.
The thoughtful sleight-of-handed
Celestial performer holds it close,
Tucked tight in hermetic fisted fingers;
Then undulates the opposite metacarpus
— In for one, in for one and all —
And so begins a slow unfolding
Of perfectly oiled, slick digits.
A dark-veined nail brings its bad-odds goods
To the tableau and . . . flicks
Pure pertinent luck,
Felicity spun from day to night
As up, up, up she goes and where she lands
Is a bluff of the prose.
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