Some Christmas eve poetry...
A Visit From St. Who?
by Arnold Snyder, from The Big Book of Blackjack
(for Kenny Uston, with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the pit,
Not a player was betting,
Not even one chip.
The dealers stood waiting
With frowns all around,
In hopes that some high-roller
Soon would sit down.
The house chips were nestled
All snug in their racks,
With visions of buy-ins
For reds, greens, and blacks.
The lights on the crest
Of the new dollar slots
Gave the lustre of riches
To all the have-nots.
The boss in his bow tie,
The waitress, the shill,
Had all settled in
For a long night of nil.
When out in the lobby
There rose such a clatter,
The boss sprang to his phone
To see what was the matter.
Then what turned his Visine-soaked
Eyes into gawkers,
But a high-rolling drunk
With eight gaudy streetwalkers!
A ten-buck Havana
Cigar in his lips,
The smoke it encircled
His arms full of chips.
His belly was full
From far too much feasting,
And it shook when he laughed
Like a chorus girl's g-string.
The shift boss grinned,
In his heart felt a rush.
He knew in an instant
It must be some lush!
"On dealers! On floormen!"
He called them by name,
"On runners and doormen,
Let's hustle this lame!"
The drunk spoke no word
But went straight to a table,
And filled all the spots
To the max he was able.
Then laying a finger
Aside of his toke,
He won every hand
'Til that table went broke
The boss's face went white
As some new fallen snow,
Not once, but three times,
He saw that rack go!
The gray-haired old guard
Watched it all with a grin.
"That's no drunk" he said,
"That's the ghost of Saint Ken!"
"He comes back each year
On this eve for a scuffle,
To clean out some bastard
Who game him the shuffle!"
And that spectre exclaimed
As he split with his crew,
"Merry Christmas to all
Who can count down a shoe!"
by Arnold Snyder, from The Big Book of Blackjack
(for Kenny Uston, with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the pit,
Not a player was betting,
Not even one chip.
The dealers stood waiting
With frowns all around,
In hopes that some high-roller
Soon would sit down.
The house chips were nestled
All snug in their racks,
With visions of buy-ins
For reds, greens, and blacks.
The lights on the crest
Of the new dollar slots
Gave the lustre of riches
To all the have-nots.
The boss in his bow tie,
The waitress, the shill,
Had all settled in
For a long night of nil.
When out in the lobby
There rose such a clatter,
The boss sprang to his phone
To see what was the matter.
Then what turned his Visine-soaked
Eyes into gawkers,
But a high-rolling drunk
With eight gaudy streetwalkers!
A ten-buck Havana
Cigar in his lips,
The smoke it encircled
His arms full of chips.
His belly was full
From far too much feasting,
And it shook when he laughed
Like a chorus girl's g-string.
The shift boss grinned,
In his heart felt a rush.
He knew in an instant
It must be some lush!
"On dealers! On floormen!"
He called them by name,
"On runners and doormen,
Let's hustle this lame!"
The drunk spoke no word
But went straight to a table,
And filled all the spots
To the max he was able.
Then laying a finger
Aside of his toke,
He won every hand
'Til that table went broke
The boss's face went white
As some new fallen snow,
Not once, but three times,
He saw that rack go!
The gray-haired old guard
Watched it all with a grin.
"That's no drunk" he said,
"That's the ghost of Saint Ken!"
"He comes back each year
On this eve for a scuffle,
To clean out some bastard
Who game him the shuffle!"
And that spectre exclaimed
As he split with his crew,
"Merry Christmas to all
Who can count down a shoe!"