....
..



Young Bill up to the oche strode,
Three darts clutched in his hand,
Within his eye the steely glint
That all men understand.

A flashing arc, a muffled thud,
The treble top just missed,
And in the crowd a tiny sigh
From the girl that he just kissed.

'One hundred forty' rings the call
As Mick McDubh strides on.
The tattooed, walnut arms flex,
And the silver missile's gone.

'One hundred eighty,' Mick steps back,
Impassively he nods.
Bill moves in, self-conscious grin,
He's up against the odds.

The perspiration trickles down.
He hammers home the arrows.
McDubh steps forward with a frown,
His eye-line slowly narrows.

Three-in-a-bed, a challenge clear,
Bill tightens up his grip,
And neatly misses with a flick
That stretches from the hip.

Mick trebles, then a fifty-seven,
The double-twelve to go.
The dart floats in... then with a spin
It's lying down below.

Bill cuts his score to sixty-four,
Mick peppers round the rim.
A treble and a double-two,
And that's the end of him!

Amidst the din that fills the hall
A lone voice pouts a scream.
Young Bill strides quickly from the board
To live another dream!

Let me show you ...