One-Pocket Ballad: A Game of Grin and Groan!
In the name of One-Pocket, this game of pure gall,
That burns up your spirit and answers no call!
Not just a game, nor a pastime so bland,
But torture refined, by a devilish hand!
The balls, like gold coins all gleaming and bright,
You rack them with care, in the green table light.
You strike with the skill of a brain surgeon's touch,
Hoping for victory, wanting oh so much!
But your cue ball, a mule that just won't obey,
Stands stubborn and still, refusing to play.
The pockets, they've vanished, gone into the night,
Like thieves in the darkness, stealing joy and light.
You aim for that corner, with hope in your breast,
With good intentions, and doing your best.
It kisses the edge, that pearl of despair,
Refuses to drop, leaving nothing but air.
A smirk from the pocket, a silent, cruel jest,
It laughs in your face, putting heart to the test.
Your opponent, an angel, but devilish deep,
With a knowing smile, secrets he'll keep.
He says, "Lucky shot, friend! You got off real free!"
Your ball was too kind, it just pitied you, see!"
You glare at him sideways, rage in your soul,
Say, "Luck, yeah, it's luck!" losing all control.
"My black luck, it follows me, day after day,
Misfortune's my buddy, come what may!"
The table's like battlefield, rough and so worn,
The balls skate on ice, helplessly torn.
You strike straight and true, with heart and with might,
The ball veers off course, as if guided by night.
The cue stick, a twig, from a childhood's bad dream,
Crooked and useless, a worthless extreme.
In the end, you succumb to defeat's bitter sting,
Head bowed in shame, no joy will it bring.
You go home defeated, tired and forlorn,
Like a soldier returning, weary and torn.
But tomorrow, you're back, stubborn and bold,
Like a moth to the flame, story untold.
For One-Pocket, this game of despair and delight,
Is a forbidden love, in the day and the night!
