The Beehive

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Six Women in the round

Six women in the round, it’s growing late.
A cachet of jewels and clubs in your hand,
Play like you’re sober and keep your face straight.
Winning’s like silken fingers catching sand

It’s paid off, though you’re certain it’s a fluke
You’ve never been a believer in fate
Or felt fantastically quick or astute.
Six women in the round, it’s growing late.

You’re the top bidder in the second round
You pause a fraction then lead as you planned.
Concentration’s intense, your temples pound,
A cachet of jewels and clubs in your hand.
You’ve won both rounds now the thirds being dealt.
You’re on a high and it feels first rate, though
In good fortunes chamber you’ve never dwelt.
Play like you’re sober and keep your face straight.

To some, laying bare the kookaburra
(-the joker’s) the pinnacle- great and grand,
But that’s not how I find my own hurrah!
Winning’s like silk fingers that can catch sand.

My greatest glee is in open misère
Absolute ruin means you win outright
It’s hard to achieve, a daredevils fate
But if I get it, it’ll make my night.
Six women in the round, it’s growing late.

by Debbie Jellings

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*And all variations
The Beehive is copyright 2002 by Deborah Beachboard
Poems are the property of the individual author and may not be reprinted without permission.