Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,
save the man by whom she was warned,
that playing hearts like Texas hold em,
she'd be the one to finally fold 'em.
Deal she may from the bottom of the deck,
and at her betting slyly whisper only check,
certain that her aces three
have handed her a trumping apogee.
But drawing furtive from his sleeve,
the fourth ace whence to retrieve,
with his stack he goes all in,
and by a crooked flush collects more than a monied win.
Certain she's been by a grifter taken,
chagrined her judgment could be so womanly mistaken,
the dame protests to the dealer in distress,
who careless tells her to sell her Versace dress.
But the man she came to cheat,
to ruin with a gloating defeat,
pushes all his winnings to her pile,
content to make her see his vindicated smile.
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