Heading to the poker game
I blow my cave hoping to win extra scratch
The front I decide to wear is my righteous rags
I'm not even a block away after exiting
I pass this knockout with nice naps
Every fella is dizzy about
Focus deep into those lamps
Would make any guy feel like a lug
Then around the corner
A goher and a gorilla
Was bleeding a juggin of his tin with bushwa
I drift away
If I don't they'll boot me a payola
I even suspect this game I'm playing
Could be a bunco
I know much about this Chicago
That has invited me has these liver lips
I then noticed the sucker
Who has a scrub as a daughter
Still have a snipe between his lips
Farther down south street
I see an astorperious
Who always bull skating
About mostly dumb to the fact
Last I made a brodie
Of stopping to beef to him
Yet this time I won't
Around another corner
I spot a square John with a bimbo
On his arm being swindled by a chiseler
In a shell game
She looks like the Mary Magdaline
My friend reformed from the local can house
Where you get plenty of jelly
This trek to my poker night hasn't been juicy
Besides been Joed
From not having many collar a nod lately
Last dim with not much doss
I had trouble with the twister to the slammer
And the dreamers usually ends up on the floor
I usually wake before the brightening
Side track for some snazzy line gigle juice
Tonight's poker host doesn't have the real Mccoy
He has the conk buster type
Although I don't want to break this dime note
I need the nobby kind
It might be the only stroll I do this dim
Once around another corner
This muffin with oomph held a roscoe
To this half portion's noggin
Who held in one hand a glass of city juice
As she's ready to crag him
I continue on
So I won't be filled with daylight
For being a witness
Then I came across a few dames
Cruising together, all with made hairs
They say they're heading to a bank night
To watch one of those new talkies
We say our abyssinas
And head to our own destinations
I then came across a sad sack
Who's a real storm buzzard
Adorned with raggy threads
And an old worn out sky piece
Who last week, someone let him have it
Right on his crumb crushers
Which are now icky
He was carrying a cadillac
Around every corner I'm all nerves to each one
Around this corner, it's no different
I pass a hooverville
This dish sits upon her stoop sipping baby
She appears to have no oomph whatsoever
She's been on the make for a while
It's on a pig's eye, if she thinks it'll be me
So far this hasn't been a july jam
Then a few amatuer investors approach
One is a Walter Winchell with a fuss at his side
I focus upon her lovely pillars
He asks me for a five spot
I only give him a ruff
He then seems sore I gave him less
than he had asked me
He then gives a honey cooler to the fuss
And they split
Then this flesh peddlar approaches
Who seems to be bailing
With this butter and egg fly
I pass them and head up the steps
To the cave of the host
Once inside he offers me all the way
For a late dim snack
I prefer not to
Then he gets a dil-ya-ble
In the background on a phonograph
I hear my pal singing 'All of Me'
Earlier in the day on the radio
I heard her singing 'Blue Moon'
Both are killer-dillers to listen to
We agree to start off the antes with a ruff
Than the usual clam
I say 'Now you're cooking with gas'
Then the bidding ends on the first hand
I tell them
'Nothing to bear but their curly hairs'
I win the first
But I better not go when the wagon comes
Because it's only the first
As the ticks go by
My luck could run out
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem