About this time of year I like to blow the dust of my old Holiday themed poem and post it. Feel free to contribute stanzas, it's been growing every year. All the nicknames refer to real pros and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely intentional.
Happy Holidays ~FK
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The Night Before New Year
'Twas the night before New Years, and all through the house,
The Jackpots were jumping, like a small frightened mouse.
The locals had got some, the tourists had more,
While pros silently waited, alone by the door.
A progressive was rising, almost a play,
Decisions were made, should I go? Should I stay?
Jean Scott was there, feeding her palate,
Free food, of course, that's the only way she'll have it.
The midnight marauder was there with a scowl,
As were Snapper and Taper, alert on the prowl.
Not So Smart Art said, "When's it a play?
Snapper snapped back, "If you can't do the math...please just go away!"
Well the Pumpers were pumping, the Thumpers were thumping,
The Winners were jumping, and the Losers were slumping.
The Slot Hosts were comping, the free drinks were flowing,
The free food was coming, all faces were glowing.
White Shirt Will was waiting for none,
With superior bankroll, he'd started the fun!
Downtime was there, heeding his own inner band,
Silently scheming, how to get action, without playing a hand?
Then from out of the shadows along came The Bane,
But he decided to pass on the play, all the same.
The pros all wondered, "Well, where does he go?"
Is there something else better, about which we don't know?
The Bane said, "I'll tell you, just don't think me daft,
I've got to go home, to play some Starcraft."
The Bucket Brothers, as always, were quick to the draw,
Securing four seats 'cause they couldn't get all.
Their two-machine style had caused some alarm,
"How the hell do they do that?" was heard from afar.
Playing so fast, some people will stare,
But when the jackpot gets up...you just couldn't care.
Soon the bank was locked up, only one seat was live,
Played by a tourist, who didn't rate to survive.
Had Tuna seen fit to deem to been there,
He'd have bellowed and blustered and shouted, "unfair"
If no one now seated will give up their seat,
then to theses peasants and rabble, I say, "no one gets meat"
For my delicate ego and sanity's sake,
Through them all off the bank, and "let them eat cake".
At first all was friendly, with talking quite proud,
Strategy questions were frequent and answered out loud.
Do you hold a seven with Jack ten suited? No one could answer,
Too bad we weren't sitting by good old Bob Dancer.
He'd passed by the bank, with nary a word,
His bankroll so large, he thought dollars absurd.
Then it ran, and it ran, all through the night,
Bankrolls were stretched, as on went the fight.
Sorry were all of those that had stayed.
Who would hit it? Some side-bets were made.
Then a change girl said, "Someone will hit this, I just don't know who!"
And we laughed, and we laughed, till our faces turned blue.
It went, and it went, still on through the night,
Until finally around the-dawns-early-light,
Lucky Pierre stood up and turned green,
His stare boded ill for all that had seen
"Someone has got it," He said with a frown,
"And I don't think they're local, they're from far out of town."
"Ah... Snapped of by the tourist after all that hard work,"
We said with a laugh and a downtrodden smirk.
"But that's how it goes, when progressives you play,
Not to worry... tomorrow's a new day.
