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The Beehive

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Six Women in the round

Six women in the round, itís growing late.
A cachet of jewels and clubs in your hand,
Play like youíre sober and keep your face straight.
Winningís like silken fingers catching sand

Itís paid off, though youíre certain itís a fluke
Youíve never been a believer in fate
Or felt fantastically quick or astute.
Six women in the round, itís growing late.

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

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

My greatest glee is in open misŤre
Absolute ruin means you win outright
Itís hard to achieve, a daredevils fate
But if I get it, itíll make my night.
Six women in the round, itís growing late.

by Debbie Jellings

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