Money’s on red.

“I’m sorry”, move it back to black.

 

Sweaty palms, at the Roulette table,

lose this, can’t afford cable,

gambling, it’s what we do,

Asians, born to lose.

 

Where it all started,

I’m not sure when,

remember losing all my money,

before I was ten.

 

In Hong Kong,

they say it’s in the blood,

betting on the ponies,

trotting on the mud.

 

Win, Place, Show,

first, second, or third,

this losing ticket is for the birds!

 

There are Asian superstitions,

where four means death,

and eight means more,

something’s wrong with you,

If you remain poor.

 

Numerology, fate, ancestral blessings,

happiness and riches,

to those the gods deem worthy of successes.

 

Mah-Jong is ancient,

invented by Confucius,

passed down the family tree,

only to perpetuate the need for financial greed.

 

My parents are conservative,

they prefer slots,

I on the other hand,

like betting a lot!

 

It’s ironic,

we know one plus one equals two,

but put two Asians together,

they’ll gamble until they lose.

 

Blackjack, poker, sports, or craps,

it doesn’t add up,

when you look at all that.

 

I miss the Lotto Jackpot,

That’s for sure,

I stopped betting even a dollar,

At the corner grocery store.

 

I learned my lesson,

for all and for once,

like, “crime doesn’t pay”,

stopped being a casino dunce.