The Ballad of Federal Gaol
Guilty, came the verdict
and Guilty filled the hall, 
and Guilty kept on coming
fully sixty counts in all.
from each jury vote, his peer —
The Gambler did not break a sweat,
he did not seem to hear.
His pupils failed to widen
nor did his pulse careen.
He showed no more emotion
than some bingo game machine
because, as he sat in Coogler’s
court, his memories took charge.
For just another moment
he was free and living large,
and in that drowning second
he replayed that pageant rich
which’d make the Kingfish envious
or Boss Tweed bust a stitch.
He was a riven Gambler,
no hold ‘em-fold ‘em rhyme.
He had to give that wheel a spin
and spin it one more time
as round and round his highlights whirled:
The TV gig, the cheers,
the Vision and a wife or two,
the bustling, busy years
plus friends who’d look out for you
if you’d look their way as well.
The Gambler kept on looking
as one by one they fell.
Guilty, came the verdict
and Guilty, newsies cried.
Lost within his reverie,
The Gambler let it ride.
He thought about the bubbles
in the many beers he’d repped,
he remembered situations
out of which he’d nimbly crept
with Jesus on his left side
and his mother on his pants
swinging an electric cord
by way of remonstrance.
Still, these were never lessons,
but adventures to be spun,
with chances to be taken
and winnings to be won.
Those who believed not in his luck
The Gambler cast aside,
always finding plenty more
beseeching for a ride.
On past the edge he pushed it all
and would not say Enough,
because no other player
would ever call his bluff.
Guilty, came the verdict
and Guilty mighty quick,
for not a single charge among
the sixty failed to stick.
But was it for malfeasance,
the enormity of sin,
or was it his gigantic pricey
wardrobe done him in?
Fernando always said if you
look good you feel good, too.
The Gambler, thanks to haberdashers,
found this to be true
from the biggest New York boutique
to the average shopping mall
(plus, feeling good meant never
paying retail, or at all).
The pageant now was drawing
to its court-appointed end,
now that the jury’d left him nothing
further to defend.
Sixty times he rolled the dice
and sixty came up craps,
leaving him right at the point
most everybody taps.
But not The Gambler. He plays on
because he’s wired like that,
because the luck might change next pass,
because you don’t stand pat.
He might seem to have lost it all.
Wait till he meets the press.
He will convince the lot that
there’s no failure like success.
See, each elected functionary’s
felt temptation’s yank.
Boodle’s strong persuasion
has filled many a solon’s bank,
and most think they have earned it,
entitled to their graft.
When winds of change start blowing,
they will never feel a draft.
We re-elect such hoodlums
and their hoodlum friends as well.
We are indifferent citizens
and weary, truth to tell.
From City Hall to Monkey Town
To Washington, you bet
the government that we deserve
is what we always get.
Fortuna’s wheel trumps justice
more than you dare admit.
One gets caught while others slide
based on where spinnings quit.
Let’s raise one to that Gambler
and the folks who staked his bet.
He anted up and lost it all
and ain’t said Sorry yet.
Incarceration makes his lot
unpleasant to perceive:
it’s easy come and easy go,
unless you cannot leave.
Courtney Haden is a Birmingham Weekly columnist. Write to courtney@bhamweekly.com
