AC/DC – The Jack
AC/DC – The Jack
She gave me the Queen
She gave me the King
She was wheeling and dealing
Just doing her thing
She was holding a pair
But I had to try
Her Deuce was wild
But my Ace was high
But how was I to know
That she’d been dealt with before
Said she’d never had a Full House
But I should have known
From the tattoo on her left leg
And the garter on her right
She’d have the card to bring me down
If she played it right
She’s got the jack, she’s got the jack
Poker face was her name
Poker face was her nature
Poker straight was her game
If she knew she could get you
She played them fast
And she played them hard
She could close her eyes
And feel every card
But how was I to know
That she’d been shuffled before
Said she’d never had a Royal Flush
But I should have known
That all the cards were coming
From the bottom of the pack
And if I’d known what she was dealing out
I’d have dealt it back
She’s got the jack, she’s got the jack
Thank you, thank you, thank you people, thank you, thank you
I’m glad you like the show, yes, thank you very much folks
Goodnight and God bless!
Interesting point regarding canhge in one’s creativity as they age (re Hemingway). Indeed, whether one is an artist or not, we do canhge as we age in mind (perspective) and body (agility). And, indeed, I suspect that an increase in sentimentality is a part of anyone’s aging and a greater awareness of their own mortality. It’s sad, however, when those canhges cause an individual to know that their life will end and they just want to get it over with. (I suppose the same thing can happen to anyone, at any age, who loses what they most valued in previous years when sentimentality becomes despair.) I particularly love the following portions of Wordsworth’s Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College and always read them in my Life-Span Development class when I get to the final chapter and aging. My FAVORITE lines are: How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flowInto the arctic regions of our lives,Where little else than life itself survives. And as the evening twilight fades awayThe sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. But why, you ask me, should this tale be toldTo men grown old, or who are growing old?It is too late! Ah, nothing is too lateTill the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.Cato learned Greek at eighty; SophoclesWrote his grand Oedipus, and SimonidesBore off the prize of verse from his compeers,When each had numbered more than fourscore years,And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,Had but begun his Characters of Men. Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,Completed Faust when eighty years were past.These are indeed exceptions; but they showHow far the gulf-stream of our youth may flowInto the arctic regions of our lives,Where little else than life itself survives. What then? Shall we sit idly down and sayThe night hath come; it is no longer day?The night hath not yet come; we are not quiteCut off from labor by the failing light;Something remains for us to do or dare;Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear;Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode,Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rodeOut of the gateway of the Tabard Inn,But other something, would we but begin;For age is opportunity no lessThan youth itself, though in another dress,And as the evening twilight fades awayThe sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.