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Twas the night before Christmas, with my face in the bowlie,

This is what happens when you mix shame with your stoli.

I started the tourney and played with such flair

That I knew before long I would be a millionaire.



Some players were sitting, squirming in their seats

They were still chaffing from some recent bad beats.

When someone arrived so late and uncouth,

I knew in a moment this prat was Hellmuth.



I called when he raised and smiled at his jibes,

I knew by the throbbing vein in his head I was getting a rise.

Then what at the river should happen that was great,

The only card left that would give me a straight.



His face flushed bright red, he thought he had won at the flop,

Phil looked like a tick that was ready to pop.

His reaction was predictable, and quite profane,

He ranted, and tantrumed and called me some names.



"You Donkey! you moron! you *$%@ing twit!",

This tirade seemed to be the extent of his wit

"You're stupid! You're thoughtless! You ought to be banned!

Only a crack snorting chimp would have played that sort of hand."



My joy was short lived, my victory a mere speck,

After becoming Phil's hobby, I was a wreck.

My chips how they vanished, my buy-in so pricey,

I will have to subsist on only beans and brown ricey.



My final words, and it's not quite a wish,

Don't go swimming with sharks when you're only a fish.



Merry, Merry Christmas!