He flashes me a mischievous grin,
Say maybe we could play again,
“Maybe at last, you might win”
Though perhaps to do so would be a sin,
For I’m dreadfully good at losing.

I agree to play, my face is grim,
I know my chances are quite slim,
As he cleverly balances the dice on the cups rim,
I really do hate losing to him,
But I am so very good at it.

He rolls the dice with a loud battle cry,
His roll is good, I can’t help but sigh,
My roll has lost, he cries oh my!
He never fails to act surprised,
When I lose to him.

I give him his winnings straight from my pocket,
Three bent old rings and a rusty old locket,
He grabs them from me and shoots up like a rocket,
And when I sigh again he can’t help but mock it,
He is so very good at winning.

With a little smile that looks so sly,
He says “Well, you gave it your very best try”
“Maybe, just maybe, you might win next time”
And now I must stop writing, I’m running out of rhymes.

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