The Lonesome (But True) Ballad of Diamondback Stan

He was a mountain bike and a gambling man.
His Kenda tires rolled ‘cross the land.
Where cards were dealt he took his hand,
And the name that they called him was Diamondback Stan.

On rugged trails and in billiard saloons,
Under dim parlor lights and bright midnight moons,
Fortified with the strength of aluminum tubes,
All alone he sang such lonesome tunes.

Until one night at a poker table rough,
A dishonest host dealt cards below snuff,
And when the host’s turn came, in a manner quite gruff,
Addressing ol’ Stan he said “I call your bluff.”

Stan looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
He adjusted his alloy seat post,
said, “Gentlemen, let us raise a toast,
to our most gracious and honest host.”

And with that laid his cards on the table bare.
His hand held only a single pair.
The hosts eyes fixed him with a cold stare.
Stan’s spokes gleamed with deep despair.

He settled his debt and wheeled away,
Through the night so black and the morning so grey,
‘Oer treacherous trail and to the city.
’Twas ne’er seen again after that day.

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