Casino

In the heart of the city, night descends,
A velvet glow from glass and chrome,
Where every reel and slot machine hums
With promises that never end.

The croupier’s voice, a calm decree,
Whispers over table top and light,
"Position your chips, let fortune be."
Yet in his calm is a subtle fright.

Roulette spins beneath the crystal dome,
Red or black, the wheels decide—
A spinning tale, a quickening home,
A whisper of luck beside the stride.

Poker tables rough, the night’s old face,
Cogs of a game that never stops;
Cards strewn across an old brass base,
Sly bluffs like sudden, dashing drops.

The undercroft echoes with the crash
Of dice that tumble, bold and chill;
A hopeful crowd, each striving dash—
All chasing that elusive thrill.

But whispering softly in the glow,
There lurks a truth as old as time:
The house, resilient as it grows,
Harbours the peace of perfect rhyme.

So when the neon kisses the sky,
And all your thoughts are funny and bright,
Remember money’s quiet lullaby—
It hums in halls where secrets light.