The dealer's upcard is a bust prone six;
The count screams my two tens should be split.
But the pit-boss glares like Charon guarding Styx;
I fear an obolus chip could serve as passage bit.

Surveillance cameras peering from above
have most surely pegged me as a counter.
I want so much to give my chips a shove,
But back-room paranoia renders me a doubter.

I stare into the frenzied dealer's eyes,
Concern says she knows I know she knows.
A prudent man would be saying his good-byes,
taking win or loss as fortune of the cards bestows.

Discretion and all that, I shall be sage;
I scoop my chips heading for the cashier's cage.