Every line he wrote was too true,
A cliche scupper that defied any rescue;
Shadows moved seemingly to hide,
Any sign of life that he might have eyed.
Luck, indeed, was a cruel trickster,
Who oft spurred him and left him astir;
All he wished to do was to write,
Only that he'd been denied new insight!
He vowed he'd find himself luck,
What might be a better bait than the buck?
He only had to run down the street,
Was not the Casino luck's own retreat?
His pockets empty, he rolled dice,
He would may be try twice, at most thrice!
At first, luck didn't bite and he lost,
But to entice luck, mustn't one bear a fair cost?
At the counter, he handed his card,
And entered his PIN, having thought hard;
As he waited to get back on luck's trail,
The lucky bastard only saw his transaction fail!
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