I miss him. When I get back to camp
I’ll dig him up. Well, he can prop & watch,
Can’t he, pink or blue,
And I will talk to him. I miss him. Slams,
Grand or any, aren’t for the tundra much.
One face-card will do.
It’s marvellous how four sit downâ€”beyond
My thought how many tables sometimes are
In forgotten clubs
Across & down the world. Your fever conned
Us, pal. Will it work out, my solitaire?
The blubber’s safe in the tubs,
The dogs are still, & all’s well. . . nine long times
I loosed & buried. Then I shot him dead.
I don’t remember why.
The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes,
Thinks I killed him. The black cards are red
And where’s the others? Iâ€”