In the dusty town of Wraithwood’s End,
Two homonculi did find a friend,
They shuffled cards with hands of clay,
And poker nights, their games did play.

Their faces blank, their eyes aglow,
They hatched their plans in whispers low,
In smoke-filled rooms, the stakes were high,
These creatures born of alchemy’s sigh.

The dealer’s hand, the river’s bend,
A dance of fate, they did attend,
With every bet and every call,
The tension grew, as shadows fall.

A pair of aces in one hand,
A straight, the other’s winning stand,
The final round, they held their breath,
A gamble played, with stakes of death.

The town, it watched in fearful awe,
As poker chips were tossed and clawed,
Lock stock and two smoking homonculi,
Their legend lives in Wraithwood’s sky.