Dealer On High

Death He casts across the green,
Or three are flopped, by His great hand;
He may turn or roll a twin,
Or float a river upon the man.

With these ways does He decide,
Sans yellow eyes, who'll rule the world,
And who'll look up to mortal men,
And who their silver spoons will twirl.

Those of us, behind the cream,
Who must fight back with hands made weak,
Fear not for we can still act,
Hearts of talent with faces bleak.

Those of us, sans courtiers,
Who must fight back with numbers base,
Should check or fold when He does tell,
Then raise to twirl our better days.