Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.