“You see, I’m not so good at this,”
Glass clinks, he taps it with his fist,
His knuckles white, he’s pale as dust,
“Give me a chance, spare me some trust.”

“Why would I?” I inquire, solemn,
“You owe me much.” He nods with sorrow.
“Let’s get it settled. Now, for once,
I’ll lend you one and final chance.”

He sweats and swears, his eyes now glisten,
With trembling hands he tries to listen,
To calm his heartbeat for a sec.
“You choose now,” I shake up the set.

Biting his tongue, he reaches forward
And picks a little piece of cobalt
With words encrypted on its form
And throws it up into the zone.

It rattles, then it stops. “Lean forward.”
He knows he lost, he shakes with horror.
I mirror movements on my end,
“I think we know what comes. Don’t fret.”

He hangs his head low, shoulders sunken,
“I beg you…” mumbles, but his turn’s gone,
And as I rise up from my seat,
He whitens, paler than a sheet

Of paper that I’ve crumbled. “Come,
Your debt’s exploitive, it’s no fun.
As soon as you’re drained of your juice,
May as well have me sign the truce.”

For others, who now bear witness
To my ungodly, filthy business,
Know now: the parley is unwise.
All Devil parlays is a vice.