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Poem	I'll wait until my money's gone Before I take the sleeping pills; Then when they find me in the dawn, Remote from earthly ails and ills They'll say: "She's broke, the foreign bitch!" And dump me in the common ditch. So thought I, of all hope bereft, And by my evil fate obsessed; A thousand franks was all I'd left Of that fair fortune I possessed. ...I throw it on the table there, And wait, with on my lips a prayer. I fear my very life's at stake; My note is lying on the Red . . . I know I'll lose it, then I'll take My pills and sleep until I'm dead . . . Oh God of mercy, understand! In pity guide the croupier's hand. My heart beats hard, my lips are dry; I feel I cannot bear to look. I dread to hear the croupier's cry, I'll sit down in this quiet nook. The lights go dim, my senses reel . . . See! Jesus Christ is at the wheel. * * * * * * * Kind folks arouse me from my trance. "The Red has come ten times," they say. "Oh do not risk another chance; Please, Lady, take your gains away, And to the Lord of Luck give thanks - You've won nigh half a million franks." Aye, call me just a daft old dame; I knit and sew to make my bread, And nevermore I'll play that game, For I've a glory in my head. . . . Ah well I know, to stay my fall, 'Twas our dear Lord who spun the ball.
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