Love is a game of cards
Which I play with hands that fumble
While others hide the hearts on their sleeves
I try to speak without it coming out jumbled
I've been dealt a better hand than most
But I have no idea how to play it
I don't even have an adequate poker face
And my cards fall when I attempt a trick

Love is a game of Monopoly
In which I have little to offer
In a world of Rockefeller's and Morgan's
I sit on the side like a wallflower
An infinite cycle of going round and round
And I'm perpetually trying to catch up
But everyone's so far ahead of me
And the whole affair is quite corrupt

Love is a game of chess
In which I will never win
My moves come slow and hesitant
And I am trusting and easy to convince
Playing on a board of black and white
Although the game itself is in shades of grey
Drive me into a corner and call checkmate
Capture my heart then leave and I will never be okay

Love is a game of tug of war
An equilibrium between our ebb and flow
Keep pulling until we're hanging on by but a single thread
While I debate if the glass half empty or full
I'll always be the one loving more
Even when I don't let it show
And I'll be the one who ends up hurt
When you inevitably decide to let go

Love is a night of games in a casino
In a city of temptation and sin
Seal your covenants with a kiss
Sell your soul to the devil with the handsome grin
Make a wish,
And roll the dice,
Remember every rose has its thorns
And when jealousy blossoms, you'll pay the price

Love is a game of Russian Roulette
Which we all play willingly
Just another character flaw,
A human vulnerability
It's no use trying to protect anyone
Luck can save you time and time again
But you can't escape the bullet forever,
And we're all just victims of love in the end

It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.

She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.

The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.

This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.

Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.