Casino Royale: Death Saves The Day

Brothels and baccarat: a fortune in figures,

A taste for the whip and a gift for addition:

Finances the union (all workers are liggers),

Pays for his pleasures and bankrolls ambition.

Arithmetic measures the pleasure of winning,

There’s no game to play if you know in advance;

It’s not Graham Greene, there’s no pleasure in sinning,

No sense of religion and an absence of chance.

But the law is not subject to rules he might play by;

The brothels are closed all over the nation.

World domination must wait in a lay-by,

Mr. No-Name takes stock with some stern masturbation.

With odds short against him he cleaves to the long game,

He’ll play at the table he knows he can’t leave,

Draw a bead on his quarry, James Bond—Mr. Wrong-Name.

Vesper Lynd is the card that he’ll keep up his sleeve.

SMERSH’s income sans brothels is vastly diminished:

The union laundered the money The Banker

(Their name for Le Chiffre) supplied—now he’s finished.

What use is he now that he’s nought but a wanker?

Death’s not familiar with Royale-les-Eaux,

Death loves a casino, Death loves a big bet—

And there’s something besides that Death doesn’t know:

Death has a double that Death’s never met.

James Bond laughs at fate and fears no man alive,

Obeys the dark summons with carefree aplomb;

Royale’s a long drive on D1015,
Just north of Dieppe, near the mouth of the Somme.

Vesper steps out of the cone of bright light

That sprays like a shower on the horseshoe-shaped table

As Death wanders in and sits at Bond’s right;

She’s unseen in the dark in her sheath of silk sable.

It goes badly for Bond from the very beginning,

Le Chiffre takes bank and he won’t be unseated;

The numbers keep coming, he knows that he’s winning

And he goes on and on until Bond is defeated.

“If you were a number I’d permit you to write a

Postdated cheque—to me all names are tox-

-ic, but especially yours— “ And up steps Felix Leiter

And bankrolls James Bond from the vaults at Fort Knox.

Bond seizes the moment—Fortune has spoken:

His cards are delivered from baccarat heaven

And in just ninety minutes Le Chiffre is broken:

“You wanted a wanted a number? How’s this—007?”

Death smiles with relief—there’s a plot at last shaping

That’ll give him the space to perform his stern duty.

But the flash of a gun in the dark leaves him gaping—

A glimpse of a scream, a terrible beauty!

Vesper Lynd has been kidnapped, Bond goes to save her,

He’s captured and tortured by Le Chiffre, who’d kill him, 

But an agent from SMERSH comes and murders Le Chiffre:

Before killing the agent, Bond takes time to grill him.

Vesper comes to visit, Bond slowly recovers—

Healing takes time and she takes the trouble;

Bond takes the bait and soon they are lovers;

And when Death comes to visit, he encounters his double.

                     *            *            *

The road out of Samarra has only one lay-by,

Le Chiffre awaits you with his whip and his bell.

It was Death who created the rules that you play by;

The road from Samarra will take you to hell.

Vesper Lynd is a dish that’s best eaten cold.

In the morning she’s lying quite cold in her bed,

And Death’s having breakfast, a pleasure untold,

And Bond’s on the blower to London: “The bitch is dead.”