Caesar Royal

She keeps her cards against her breast
but she’s shaken, stirred,
and you could die before you fold.
Two pair: a seven and a jack, but
no cards to help you
when she stabs you in the back.
“Et tu, Brute?”
And then you fall.
You’ve tried the bitterness of lips
and now that you’ve tasted hers
she’s all you want to drink.
Here’s your last chance to make a straight
but she folds a drink across
a heart too strong, too cold.

“Et tu, Brute?”.
You fold and then you fall.

If there’s no terror in her threats than
her honesty could pass the wind
without respect, and no regrets.
Quit counting cards before you cry
’cause those bloody tears can’t call her bluff
Oh no, they won’t shut it up.
“Et tu, Brute?”
You fold and then you fall.
“Et tu, Brute?”
A vesper makes the call.
“Et tu, Brute?”
The winner takes it all.
Some men are masters of their fate
but your dealer’s blind
and it’s your move.
Your game must end before we meet again.
Now the job is done, and the bitch is dead.
Et tu, Brute?

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