The Final Bet by Bob Eccleston

 

He's meandering down the city street

Like a twig drifting on a river's flow

The surging crowd sending him to and fro

He has nowhere to go, no-one to meet

Home’s a dingy bed-sit that needs a clean

With a ready meal that’s made for one

He used to go out, but those times are gone

His night centers on the flickering screen

What he once had was close to ideal

A family man with money to spare

All he should want, but a weakness was there

He lost the lot on cards and the wheel

He’s ready now to place his final bet

In a no-win game of Russian roulette