Your Future

They sit with their chips, their eyes full of dreams,  

Chasing illusions, not all as they seem.  

The wheel keeps spinning, the dice hit the floor,  

The odds aren't random—they’re rigged at the core.  

They cheer for the wins, curse at the loss,  

Blind to the hands that are counting the cost.  

The game isn’t chance, it’s cunning and planned,  

Built to make fortunes slip through eager hands.  

The house always wins, that’s how it’s designed,  

Each bet that you place leaves your future behind.  

So why be the fool who prays for a chance,  

When you could be the one who scripts the dance?  

Step past the tables, walk out the door,  

Stop playing the game—own the whole floor.  

For gamblers will gamble, no matter the pain,  

And the smartest of players don’t play—they gain.