A St. Pattie's Day Poem

The Darts Playing Man.

With washing tumbling to the mess I made my way,
With money in my left hand and darts in my right,
I ordered a Guinness and switched on the light,
To drink and darts on this merry St Patrick’s Day.

Toe on oche, tungsten in hand,
Ricochet off barrel, deflection off flight,
The darts whistling throughout the desert night,
The thrill known only to the darts playing man.

The warm-up over, the practice began,
The score was steady, pegged in one dart,
Thirty-four overall, an admirable start,
The thrill known only to the darts playing man.

Into trouble in the second our hero ran,
The muck cart came during the leg,
Forty-four, bad scores, struggled with the peg,
The frustration known only to the darts playing man.

To the bar to recharge with another can,
“Last Drinks!” the call, the darts soar,
Ton thirty-eight, then eighty more,
The thrill known only to the darts playing man.

Toe on oche, tungsten in hand,
Ricochet off barrel, deflection off flight,
Darts whistling throughout the desert night,
Sixty the peg, twenty in one but blocks the bed,
At least to the mortal but the PG sees red,
The second high but does its part,
The third and twenty-forth off the second, GAME OF DARTS!
The thrill known only to the darts playing man.

PG Out.