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Chips
Fifty-two royal rectangles
 Each hiding a different ecstasy
 Seven lay in my palm at angles
 My hand, which you cannot see
 
 I can conceal my solid, steel grip
 Of majestic, stately septuplets
 I feel my blank expression starting to slip 
 My brow, once again, I knit
 
 Tossing my faces upon the frigid, grainy wood
 And feeling a smirk toy with my lips
 I'd mutter one word, if I only could
 With music in my lungs, I'd say "chips"

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