'Twas the Night … (With apologies to Clement C. Moore … )

'Twas the night before Christmas, yet all through the room,

A silence had settled, pervasive with gloom.

The clatter of chips, the banter and cheer,

The bright bustling sounds and the glad atmosphere

Had vanished, replaced by a grim sense of dread;

The cardroom, once festive, was somber instead.

The floormen, whose manner was usually light,

Appeared rather worried and even uptight;

The chip runners, likewise, were deep in the blues,

As though they'd received some calamitous news.

And even the dealers - a quite carefree bunch -

All looked like they'd eaten bad salmon for lunch.

Wherever I looked, in every direction,

Sat card players slumping in utter dejection.

What's caused this? I wondered. Just what is the reason

That everyone's mood is so foul this Yule season?

And then I stopped dead, and I scarce could believe

Just what I was seeing on this Christmas Eve.

Or what I didn't see, and it still makes me shiver,

For each table's board … was missing its river!

The river was gone! Dried up were its banks!

When fifth cards were turned, they simply were blanks!

The years of berating and putting him down

Had made Old Man River decide to leave town.

With no way to chase after razor-thin draws,

The live ones couldn't buck probability laws;

And pros were reduced to great wailing and sobs

At the prospect of having to go and get jobs.

So no one was happy - not sharpie, not fish,

But everyone present shared one desperate wish,

For one thing was sure: To get Christmas on track,

The river in poker would have to come back.

But who had the power, the sheer cosmic juice

To make Old Man River forgive such abuse?

For years we'd all cursed him, and doused him with blame -

So why would he ever return to our game?

Our odds seemed so slender, our prospects so bleak;

The river was gone, leaving us up the creek!

Was poker itself at the end of its rope?

The faces around me looked empty of hope …

When suddenly, what to my eyes should appear

But a bright crimson sleigh and eight flying reindeer -

With a ruddy-cheeked driver, all lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Donder and Blitzen!

Hey, Rudolph - steer straight! Keep your eyes off that vixen!"

He crashed valet parking, then marched through the door;

This wasn't the time for the trappings of lore -

(The chimney and snow, all those ashes and soot);

Old Nick had a mission - to put down his foot.

He spoke to the crowd in a thunderous voice,

And said, "Listen up - for here is your choice:

"You simply must learn to accept and embrace

The bad with the good, the brick with the ace;

For rivers, like streets, carry traffic two-way;

Without disappointment, without the dismay,

Without the suspense and, yes, even despair

We wouldn't have a reason to play or to care.

What pleasure would winning at anything bring

If losing didn't carry equivalent sting?

So here is the deal, and you'd better agree:

If ever again you're expecting to see

The river upon which your wagers depend,

Your whining on fifth street must come to an end.

If not, then I tell you, as sure as there's drop,

There'll come a day soon you won't even get flop!"

One glance at the crowd, and I instantly knew

That they were convinced, and Nick knew it, too.

And so this dynamic and jolly old elf

Would bring back the river and fix things himself -

As long as we followed this one strict condition:

Our newfound forbearance must be a tradition -

Not merely a pledge to be quickly forgot

Whenever some river card costs us a pot.

"Remember," he told us, "that blame achieves zip -

It's never been known to win one single chip."

And then he exclaimed, as he sped out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"