The plan was laid. The bet was made. We had settled on the trade
if I should win and you would lose because of options you might choose
I am sure that you would find the opposite of peace of mind.
Your spirit would be in distress and you’d be absent happiness
which was the best prize I could win but you had more you must throw in:
Your assistant must trade teams to join my squad and switch regimes.
You’d lose your girl. I’d gain her skills. What a swell way to build ill-will.
And so agreed, legit and fit, we faced to sit, prepared to play the game of Spit.
It took a while, as we were good, each the best in neighborhoods, as well we should be,
but now you’ve lost, your girl is mine, the day is fine, victory, sublime, like such sweet wine, will be served into a stein, by thine formerly aligned assistant, now assigned to… me.
I said you were gonna lose that girl!