Black was the color of his true love’s hair
Black was the color of his underwear
Black was the color of his new neckware
It’s called an ascot and it’s around here somewhere
He doffed his cap, did a quick tap dance
Spied his ascot by the chair as if by happenstance
Checked yet again that he was wearing underpants
For tonight he’d risk those undies on a random game of chance
You see, in nighttime San Marino
There was a certain casino
That would let you bet your undies
On one spin of the Roulettino
Or roulette wheel,
If you’re not straining for a rhyme
But I’m trying to write a poem here
And do not have much time!
An hour later he was seated by the wheel
Scoping out the action, trying to get a feel
Trying to catch that waiter’s eye
So he could order some more veal
Finally he gave up, threw his undies down
“My satin drawers on black!” he yelled with impish glee
All action stopped, smiles turned to frowns
For there’s a twist, you see. . .
Our man had his directions wrong
He wasn’t even in San Marino
So he and his slick satin drawers
Spent the night in jail in Reno
Related: Ozymandias II: Always Bet on Black
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