The gambling hall is hot with greed, a hundred hands that shake and bleed. The old men lose, the rich men stay, the rest of us were born to pay. The whole room watches where it lands, the iron ball decides our hands. A pair of eyes I can't refuse — I came to win, I came to lose. I know this fever, I know its name. One turn, one stake — the pulse goes thin. The wheel decides what I won't dare, I am that man, I am that man. I can, of course, do nothing — I can, of course, do nothing — but the wheel turns, and I turn with it, and I call it freedom. I can, of course, do nothing. She came with the will of an iron crown, and the whole hall bent as her fortune went down. She stakes the estate on a single red, and the fever she lights goes straight to my head. I win — I burn. I lose — I kneel. The gold in my pocket turns to ash, unreal. A hundred thousand and still I crave, each coin a stone on the lip of the grave. Not love, not reason — the fever speaks. Not pity, not mercy — the wheel just turns. A hall of smoke, a hand in mine, the green abyss, and the edge of the line. No salvation, no clean release — only the fever pretending to peace. I can, of course, do nothing — I can, of course, do nothing — but the wheel turns, and I turn with it, and I call it freedom. I can, of course, do nothing — I can, of course, do nothing — but the wheel turns, and I turn with it, and I call it freedom. I can, of course, do nothing. The wheel goes still, the lights go grey, the crowd dissolves and drifts away. There's nothing in my hands but me — so I stake the man I used to be.
