Archive
07/10/12 - (2)
All's Fair in Love and Cribbage
It's not been a month, love, Since I taught you the outs and the ins of playing your cards, The strategies integral for distributing to the crib, pegging, counting,
And now, just like the ill wind that blows no good aroma-omens, You rub the salt of your newly exploited skill, your expertise, Into the wounds you've inflicted on my mastery of this game,
By skunking me, beating me by an entire street and then some, Humiliating me, your devoted cribbage magister ludi, Who's lavished such nurturing advice, for your every tyronic blunder,
Only to be shown such indifferent, merciless sundering, As you've double-double-runned me, for sixteen, twenty, twenty-four, All within a matter of seven, eight, ten dealt hands,
Reducing me to not even bones, with your flesh-rendering, Rather just to ashes, dust, atoms, with your competitiveness, Having run over my spirit, my soul, as if I were a skunk in the road.
See if I teach you the next blood sport we choose to contest! Better that the only game we play is one where I can't possibly lose, Like Between the Sheets, but without the cards . . . right now!
07/10/12 - (2)
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