Classic Poem

THIS LIFE is but a game of cards,
Which everyone must learn;
Each shuffles, cuts, and deals the deck,
And then a trump does turn;
Some show up a high card,
While others make it low,
And many turn no cards at all —
In fact, they cannot show.

When hearts are up we play for love,
And pleasure rules the hour;
Each day goes pleasantly along,
In sunshine's rosy bower.
When diamonds chance to crown the pack,
That's when men stake their gold,
And thousands then are lost and won,
By gamblers, young and old.

When clubs are trump look out for war,
On ocean and on land,
For bloody deeds are often done
When clubs are held in hand.
At last turns up the darkened spade,
Held by the toiling slave,
And a spade will turn up trump at last
And dig each player's grave.