By: Edwin Victor Westrate

Source: The Bridge Player's Bedside Companion




He was a guy who talked and talked
And talked and talked some more,

At chatter he was never balked,
This non-stop, maddening bore.

On every deal and every play,
On every trick we tossed away,

He had to have his little say,
On what he did one other day,

On hands in which his brilliant sway
Won every coup in every fray.

He left us just one thing to do,
If we would have release,

So I murdered him last Tuesday,
And now we play in peace.


The Bridge Player's Bedside Companion



She was so nice in every way,
I thought, until with dull

And sickening thud, I heard her say,
"Let's see - oh, yes - We're vul."

I didn't mind how long she'd mull
Above her hand a card to cull

And play to end the painful lull,
But then would crash into my skull,

Those words to quickly render null
And void all else, "I see we're vul."

The death decree I had to give,
There was no other way,

So Wednesday night the deed was done.
No more "We're vul" she'll say.



I should have known right from the jump,
He'd put me on the skids.

He looked the part - but who could dream
He'd pass my forcing bids?


In all of contract's playing mass,
I've never met a mind so crass,

I'd bid "Two spades," he'd say, I pass,"
My jump shifts, too, he'd drop, alas,


My golden tries were so much brass,
While playing with this cheerful ass.

The end, of course, was no surprise,
Last Thursday was the time.


I shot him right between the eyes.
Who dares to call it crime?