Tom Gad can't eat his morning meat,
His head of pain has twitches;
And his faithful chap can't find a rap
Of coin about his breeches:
But turns the pockets of each inexpressible,
Merely to show how far they were accessible.
* * * * *
Losing Hazard resembles the sea, it is plain,
For it certainly swallows things up by the _main_;
But the fellow who in the destructive game dabs,
Though he catches no fish, is full sure to throw _crabs_.
He deserves to be beat with the best of crab sticks,
For though "six, seven, eight," have got, each of them, _nicks_,
They, at last, lay the gambler undone on the shelf,
And then he is taken by old _Nick_ himself;
Besides, he's a noodle undoubted, who'd try
To be making a _living_ by going to _die_!