On a warm summer's evening,
on a train bound for nowhere,
we met up with a gambler.
We were both too tired to sleep,
so we took turns a-staring
at the window at the darkness.
Till boredom overtook us,
and he began to speak.
He said, son, I've made a life
out of reading people's faces
and knowing what their cards were
by the way they held their eyes.
So if you don't mind my saying,
I can see you're out of aces
for a taste of the whiskey,
I'll give you some advice.
You got to know when to hold them,
know when to fold them,
know when to walk away, and
know when to run.
You never count your money.
When you're sitting at the table, there'll
be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.
You got to know when to hold them,
know when to fold them,
know when to walk away, and
know when to run.
You know it's never timing enough
for counting when the dealing's done.
You got to know when to hold them,
know when to fold them,
know when to walk away, and
know when to run.
You never count your money.
When you're sitting at the table, there'll
be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.
Every gambler knows the secret to surviving
in,
knowing what to throw away,
knowing what to keep,
cause every hand's a winner,
and
every hand's a loser,
and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
And when he finished speaking,
he turned back toward the window,
crushed out a cigarette,
faded off to sleep,
and somewhere in the darkness,
the gambler he broke even,
but in his final
mind came home.
be time enough count when the dealings done.