Pinochle Poem


NEW YEAR’S DAY OF 96

Another new year has just arrived.

Lucky are we to still be alive.

But as old friends from long time past

gather again, hoping it’s not the last.

We’ll eat Jeanne’s food and drink Bob’s beer

start the year off with plenty of cheer.

I’ll bid thirty, needing a few things.

A king and a queen will fill me in.

The widow is nines & and a single jack,

woe is me, another setback.

I look at Rosalie, my partner this hand.

She melds aces, we’re out of a jam.

I yell at her, you let the bid go by,

with aces at least say thirty five.

She smiles and gives me her simple grin,

I’ve nothing else, we’ll be lucky to win.

Needless to say, we took every trick.

Smitty held his head, I thought he was sick.

Bob White and I flew through our game.

I swore at times, his bidding was insane.

He needed two cards for a run one time,

he turned the widow over and grinned at his find.

He filled in his run and two aces to boot.

We snatched in the tricks like pirates with loot.

I teamed up with Lois and smiled so bold,

I was fifty ahead, she was a hundred in the hole.

Bob White was our opponent and Smitty was too.

Forty-one I said but Bob White yelled forty-two.

Smitty held his head, expecting to go set.

But Bob told Smitty not to fret.

Double pinochle would come with the diamond jack.

The jack was there with aces back to back.

Lois moaned and groaned and grabbed another beer;

They thrashed us so bad, I shed a sad tear.

Jeanne was leading coming down the stretch,

Bob McDonnell, her partner, was ready to bet,

there was an ace in the widow to fill in his run.

He turned the cards over and sat there stunned,

jacks and queens were all that he got.

He threw the hand in right on the spot.

Down Jeanne went to the bottom of the crew,

her chances of winning were gone she knew.

Now Rosalie was winning but only by a hair,

I was in second coming on like a bear.

Smitty was third and had a good chance to win.

Lois was his partner so he wore a big grin.

Because I had Pat and Rosalie Bob White.

Pat hemmed and hawed and I said things were tight.

If she didn’t bid, the game was out of sight.

The last thing we wanted, was to lose to Bob White.

Twenty-five she said, but he whispered twenty-six.

Pat recounted her meld, while I was nearly sick.

Twenty-seven she said. Bob White didn’t hesitate.

He leered at Pat and said twenty-eight.

We won’t say anymore about the final game.

If you didn’t have fun, it’s yourself to blame.

Ninety-five is gone and ninety-six is here.

Another year to spend with friends we hold dear.

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