Is Poker Poetic? Apparently in Barrhaven

The first of a semi-monthly poker game was so successful one of the participants wrote this poem:

From "Childe Roland to Barrhaven Came"

What in the midst lay but the poker game itself?

The round squat table, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown wood, without a counter-part

In the whole world. Google maps' mocking elf Points to the designated driver thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, after three point start.

Not see? because of beer perhaps?

Why, day Came back again for that! before it left, 

The game's explanation kindled through a cleft:

The complex rules, like giants at a hunting, lay, 

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, "Cards are wild only if they are six!-the split pot's heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it toll'd 

Increasing like a bell.

Names in my ears 

Of all the wild cards announced by my peers,

How such a one was deuce, a two, I was told 

Though he had two twos, yet the dealer of old 

Lost, lost! one moment knell'd the woe of years.

The players sat, ranged behind chips, met 

To view the last hand, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame 

I saw my cards were not too good. 

And yet Dauntless, my hands behind the chips set, 

Yelled "Childe Roland to Barrhaven came... and I'm ALL IN!"

[Many, many, apologies to Browning: http://www.bartleby.com/246/654.html]