Clickity clack. The die bounced back.
Look, listen for that aerial attack.
The spring of the board, the bed of the ground.
Balance inbound of that rickety sound.
The six-sided die can go left, can go right.
The die can find height in the twilight of night.
Then the die can lie still on that flat wooden sill,
when the cup o’beer stands topped to its fill.
And hope, young lad, when that die finds rest,
that ‘bizz’ be not at its upright crest.
For you’ll down the suds, 16 oz. in full.
Golden bubbles, liquid cold, froth like wool.
Then slam it down. And fill it once more.
Don’t say the numeral that comes after ‘4.’
Roll that good die on the grainy wood ply.
If it hits ‘bizz,’ opponents will pour.