This song is actually nonsense. I suggest any prospective gamblers give it a wide berth. Basically it's a lesson on survival delivered by a guy who then dies.
On a warm summer's evenin' on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin' out the window at the darkness
'Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin' out the window at the darkness
'Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.
OK, I don’t actually mind this first verse. The “gambler” is on a train bound for nowhere. He’s illustrating his thirst for gambling by getting on a train without even knowing its destination. Fair play. Although, if I’m the one narrating this little tale, I’d wanna be asking myself why I’m on a train bound for nowhere also, unless Nowhere is actually the name of a town. Nowhere, Alabama or something. I’m also wondering why these two were too tired to sleep, even though it’s only evening. A true gambler in my book is one capable of a 72-hour stint at the poker table without so much as a yawn. Anyway…
He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces,
And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
so if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I'll give you some advice."
And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
so if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I'll give you some advice."
Nosey git. This is where I start to get a bit suspicious. This is a guy who claims to have made a living out gambling, and is so good at it, he can even tell what people’s cards are just by the look in their eyes, yet, evidently, he doesn’t have the funds to buy his own fucking whiskey. Perhaps he does have his own and he just wants to drink mine first. OK, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, for now.
So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right."
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right."
Hang-on, what’s going on here? It was evening a minute ago, now it’s night-time and he’s now asking me for a cigarette! He’s had my last drop of whiskey (he said he only wanted a taste) and now he wants my fags too. He’ll be asking if he can give my wife a tupping next. Jeez, not only has he not got the money to buy whiskey, he can’t even afford three bucks for a packet of smokes. I’m starting to dislike the old fucker. Has he even got a ticket for this train? Am I gonna have to fork out for that too when the conductor comes a calling?
You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.
Well, that’s just bullshit. You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table?? Course you fucking do. How else are you gonna know where you are in the tournament? You need to constantly count your stack to know how it relates to the size of the blinds. You should also be counting everyone else’s stack. Especially if it’s a cash game, you need to know who can bust you. And anyway, I don’t care about cards, I thought he was gonna give me advice about my life. He could see I was out of aces he said. What a tosser. I need marital advice not unreliable advice on how to play cards.
Ev'ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
Aaaaah, he’s talking metaphorically. He DOES know I’ve just cheated on my wife and she’s chucked me out and now I’m off to go and live with me Mum and Dad. But wait; the best I can hope for is to die in my sleep? Surely not; the absolute best-case scenario for anyone is to die in their sleep??? How can that be true? Surely if it’s death we’re talking about, the best you can hope for is to be fucked to death by a gang of crazed fragrant Persian whores. I shouldn’t have let him drink all my whiskey. He’s talking bollocks.
When he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.
Crushed out MY cigarette and then he died. OK, so let’s recap. This old parasite on a train talking to a total stranger, dies in his sleep and according to him, that’s paradise? Oh and this “ace,” this sage advice is that I should know when to fold ‘em and when to hold ‘em. Literally or metaphorically, I already knew that. Everyone knows that. What I was really after here is a lesson in how to recognise when I should fold ‘em and when I should hold ‘em. What he’s basically told me here, is that you ought to know how to win. Not, here’s how to win, just you should know how to win. Oh well thanks. Now I’m stuck opposite a dead old guy with no cigarettes or whiskey and I don’t even know where I’m going, so I could be here ages. I think I’ve been had.
Having said all that, it’s a pleasant enough song if you ignore the lyrics. Inexplicably, it’s also a song that used to pop into my head in moments of post-coital contentment. While others smoke, eat or fall asleep, I chose to hum along to the Gambler by Kenny Rogers with my foot tapping away beneath the duvet.
Having said all that, it’s a pleasant enough song if you ignore the lyrics. Inexplicably, it’s also a song that used to pop into my head in moments of post-coital contentment. While others smoke, eat or fall asleep, I chose to hum along to the Gambler by Kenny Rogers with my foot tapping away beneath the duvet.
1 comments:
I think when hes singing about being on a train to Nowhere what he actually means is that hes had a rather large punt on the horse called Nowhere running in the 7.30 at Windsor. Its amazing what you can pick up in a song.
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