There must be some kind of ace counted here.
Fed the joker to the three.
There's two clubs - confusin',
I can't bet no misdeal.
Fizz the ten – then sprink' my nine.
Now bet big, my worth.
Hung the seven on the swine,
No money'll fit its girth.

No readin' to get ignited.
The three be kind, me stoked.
There are many beers among us.
You feel that Lite is but a joke.
But two is high, we bend the jack,
And six is not our eight.
So bet it not, mock all these sows.
The bower's getting played. Hey?!

All us long for Scotch sours.
Drink up, kept the two.
While all the winnings came and went,
There put, worse than two.
Outsized fin to hold sixes.
A wild card hid trowel.
Two-hiders were encroaching,
And to win the hand he growled. Hey?!