It is morning.

You go gunning, for the shot that stole your thunder.

You fight til hit is daunted. But they catch you, 84 miles south, and do their damndest to put your ass under.

Then you love a little wild one, and she brings you only sorrow. Such a pretty smile; you’ll be on your knees tomorrow.

Now.
You swear and kick, and beg us, that you’re not a gambling man. Heh. Whatcha doing back again in Vegas, with that handle in your hand?
Your black cards can make you money. Naturally you hide them when you’re able, but down here in the land of milk and honey
you must put them on the fucking table.

And here you go
back, jack, do it again
Wheel turning ’round and ’round

You Go Back
Jack

Do It Again