Bầu Cua Cá Cọp
Published: 2008 Dec 17
Categories: Ars Poetica, Amoura
Let me tell you the story of a man who played:
Bầu. Cua. Cá. Cọp.
A game where
You roll the dice and let it drop.
Place your bets then lift the top.
Did you win? Or did you flop?
Will you go? Or will you stop?
This man, a hundred dollars from his lucky lì xì,
started his first round betting on every space he could see.
All. Six. Spaces.
In high school he tried to date every girl,
Strung 'em together like a necklace of pearls
You would've thought he would've found The One
But after four years, he still wasn't done.
All. Four. Years.
And he lost a lot of money.
So now he's fifty dollars down
No matter, no matter, his luck'll turn around
Listening to the sound of the cubes against the disc
This time he's spreading the risk,
Three spaces he thinks, to cover his bases.
Ooh... the lid is lifted. No smiling faces.
Oh. My. God.
In college he had a girlfriend, a mistress,
and what you would call a friend with benefits.
If it didn't work out well with one of the lovers,
Then he could simply jump to the other.
But by the time he walked on the stage with a degree in his hands,
There was no one there to appreciate his take to the stand
As he raised his right hand and took his academic oath
He thought, "If you chase two rabbits, you will lose them both."
Or. All. Three.
Now he's down to 23 dollars.
Okay, so maybe he'll wait a few rounds before trying his luck.
Analyze the odds before passing the buck.
Calculate rounds for optimal returns,
And keep a count of every round he has learned.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
He's in his late twenties, boy does time fly.
He doesn't even date, doesn't even try.
Every woman is unworthy in his eyes
Though he may have to lower his standards and compromise.
What. A. Bother.
He was up to 30 dollars, with steady breathing,
But after 20 rounds, he was slowly bleeding.
He's borrowing money and risking his face
He sorta feels somewhat in disgrace
But after all that time, what does he have to lose?
Other than his shirt, his pants, and his shoes.
One. Last. Try.
He's still a tragic, single man, a mamma's boy,
His friend zone is the size of Illinois.
He's walking around with a pretty bored look,
He really has no use for this black book.
No, not phone numbers, but his journal, his soul,
So he tosses into the air, let it get lost in a hole.
This woman picks it up and flips through a writing,
And saw the beauty in his pain, and his valiant fighting.
She cooks up a plan, to return a lost object,
And he meets her at Starbucks, in order to collect.
The caramel macchiato, somehow tasted much sweeter.
He somehow felt lucky to be there.
Spider. Senses. Tingling.
Not sure if at all he would win.
He decided, this round, this space, to go all in.
