Sometime in the year before he died/My dad and I were on Fremont Street in downtown Vegas/Where the night seems day like with all that light

We were shooting craps at Binion’s Horseshoe/And I had placed the 6 for six dollars

And the 6 came up and I said “Press it”

And it hit again and I said “Go to 18”

And I got another one and I said “Go to 24”

And then unbelievably 6 came up yet again

And Dad said “You should take it down”/But I said “Hard 6 for two bucks”/Throwing two one-dollar chips/To where the stick man could get them

And there were several rolls that were neither 6 nor 7

Then the shooter flung a crazy-bouncing roll/And one die was 3 and the other spun like a top

And I murmured something I’d heard a pit guy say long ago: “And then the waiter came out carrying…”

And the other die stopped spinning/and 4 was on top/but it did a half roll! Three!/And as the men at the table/Let out a lusty masculine roar/I finished my sentence loudly though doubting I’d be heard: “…TWO TREYS!!”

And I collected and was way ahead

But sometime after midnight I and my dad were almost tapped out

So we went to the Union Plaza where the minimum craps bet was only a quarter

And we lasted about an hour

Dad was busted out but I had a few bucks/So I took him to a cheap breakfast

Feeling less like a son/Than a brother