A card for Player

Just for something to do
He took his suitcase to pack.
The first thing that he saw
was a gun, he put it in his hand.

His lovely wife had left him,
She chose another man.
His first reaction had been
to kill him, not both of them.

The reaction against his nature,
He was constantly surprised.
He really had done nothing,
But had to get rid of the gun.

The hissing wheel of a roulette,
Red glittering dice that fell
Skittering cards on green felt table,
He banished the fatal seven to hell.

His luck was enormous, crazy, endless,
He saw other gamblers’ white-dead faces.
He was so rich to escape
For his new life and to stop the game.

When he came back to his guest room
To stay alone, to sleep but soon
He understood that nothing changed:
The ghosts of dawn, the terror, rage.

He couldn’t sleep, he had some problems,
He used sometimes his sleeping pills
But got nightmares, so painful,
Instead of calming peaceful dreams.

But there were a lot of hookers,
They called them ‘walking sleeping pill ’.
They were so good, they gave him comfort
According his immediate will.

All those reddish, brunets, blond
Never made him feel alone.
He didn’t ask his friends’ compassion,
He was so calm, in his perfection.

He hadn't reason for affection.
He packed, he wept,
Then scooped the gun,
In one swift moment game was done.

‘Degenerate gamblers are out of game,
They end their life almost the same.
It’s a usual thing’, said the casino boss.
‘He never cared if he won or lost,
The reason is love which can kill on the earth.
His wife seems to be an angel of death’.

Based on ‘FOOLS DIE’ by Mario Puzo