Our suits transformed

And was it only yesterday
with all your suits transformed
you sat: and undertook. Began
the play: your hand stuck in
'til old and fat.

A shocking look you saw at that. 

Then swords were spades. So
civilized! Instead of stab, just
bury them. So wands and staves
became as clubs, to call with sirens.

Dance begin.

We lost all glory for such drudge.
And I would say: a fine exchange! 
We'll plow your green row deep
to plant and sow world peace
in pleasured veins.

We dug our holes
to sleep therein.
We lost all magic
for left brains.

For such dull,
wooden bludgeoning
by leaves of three, we'd find
all clubs accepting us for greater 
gain! Because we lost the whole
damn stake on our way in. Spin
wheel, pick sin. Just pride? Just lust? 
Or envy? Sloth? 

Oh no, now never covetousness. 

Not even wrath.

Just anger, now. 
All gluttons for
our penances, we'd
make amends.

We don't know how.

We sold our ass to balance out
between us friends. We lost so much!

As French decks ruled and coins and discs
to jewelry turned. A diamond?

Now there's a touch. So cool it burned.
The hardest rock in worlds, so many
faces cut by silver light and weight
to flash argent in night!

Forget these worthless stones. 
Please don't let's fight. 

Just pull a ducat from its place.
Your pocket, almost empty now?

Let's flip a coin and let it ride.
Why not? All this on either/or. 
It says your head? Don't think,
my bride. Now one flip more,
to win us back! Don't wink!

This cup is passing full.
It's just one matchstick. 
What's your lack?

Why, make some joke!
Say heads means "Fool"
and tails means oh,  
you lost again.

Fuck, me. 

Once more? To win it back?
Who'd bet on that used piece? 
By arts high-low we've lost our bile,
blood and proper phlegm, humors released.
All hearts and minds by rumored ken.
All cups and cakes by courtesy. 

Our uniforms walk up to bat without
so much as flesh inside. We've done our
splits, our spits, all balls and basis rounded
pounded flat. So if to cry, please let us weep.

Spilt milk upon the cricket pitch. 
Now tabled 'Round for all to see,
for pennies pound to scratch some itch.
Some cur still wants his turn now, bitch.
Or some wag wants his virtue, see? 

There isn't any wine left, too. 

Wait! Just one drop. 

For you. 

From me.