This is a poem about a problem of my past.
A gambler likes to risk it
On the rolling of the die
He will place it on a number
With odds of one in thirty five
His last dollar
He will risk it
Even though life will be hard
Because there's nothing more enchanting
Than the turning of a card
No this enchantment is not beauty
It's not love that gamblers see
It's the feeling
That fuels this mans disease
He may go hungry, may get thinner
But he does it and he's pleased
It's the meal he want's to hear
That drives his hunger of disease
"Ladies and Gentlemen we have a Winner!"
"Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!"
The craving hunger now it leaves
But will return when hunger pleads
The gambler will return to the casino
It is the home of his disease