In halls where neon lights flicker and spin,
Where dreams in silver chips begin to twirl,
A voice rings out clear as a bell's chime,
Guiding hands with each gamble's prime.
"Place your bets, dear friends," the dealer calls,
With an air both brisk and warmly grand.
"Here the night is short on tales of dross,
In this temple where luck's the currency."
Wheels whisper secrets in spinning breaths,
Revealing stars that only chance can see.
Cards flutter like leaves from autumn's tree,
Each one telling stories of fortune's sweep.
Dice roll, their clatter a rhythmic dance,
An ancient waltz set to fate's wild tune.
Every gambit spins the wheel anew,
Where dreams are born and shattered too.
"Who'll take this hand?" The dealer asks again,
With eyes that shine like any lucky gem.
Here in this place where bets are made so bold,
The whispering wheels of chance hold sway.
THE HOUSE
[ GameBot ] Ä the table never sleeps
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