The cards were dealt from the right in a rusty mechanical sway,
making its rounded way.
With the dealer's tired eyes looking on to this blurry view... Of a few
who filled the room from the worst to the best followed by the rest.
With this action, the wild west saloon poker night
rode along on its thin pale horse to its grim dim light.
As a comforting old neon jukebox coughed up
the soundtrack to Jim Morrison's life... Riders On The Storm!
When suddenly The Doors... Busted open from each opposing side
of this wide rectangle room filled with a sweet intoxicated cigar mist.
The old boys in blue sprayed fierce words of caution and risk.
In at that moment, all around the table were quick to their feet,
while choking on their selective bourbon
in this situation of illegal gambling!
Making the eight players stand in a firm stance...
Yes an epic painting to paint!
Tense silence filled the semi dark room making way to the squeaky fan that blew steady onto the massive mountain of dead presidents who frantically waved back to the position
of each gambler's greedy eyes and their demise.
Meanwhile, the ladies of the unlucky ladies stole their pay
and scattered passed the law dogs that
surrounded their cloudy way... Yet cops stood tense,
hoping to avoid a crippling situation of standoff, that
would surely snowball into a shootout for some paper...
This used up... Rolled up paper!
This magnetic paper that these players can't escape
her greedy green hands of fate.
Leading their fate, to reach for their pieces on the table
in this gangster fable...
All thought one last gamble... All in!
Chaotically spraying shots into the blinding bright
heavenly light... From... The Doors...
From which one came in the Grim Reaper...
Into their last day... To play one last hand... With these Riders On The Storm!