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        The Darts Match

    A Poem By Pat Taylor (Great Haywood Club)

  Every Wednesday I go with the “lads” to play darts
 We play, we win, we lose, we laugh, then everyone departs

 They aim for the bull but the dart goes wild
 A cry goes up “You fatherless child”
 “Good arrers,” “Unlucky” are heard from the crowd
 and “Miss it you tow rag” (but never out loud)  

                                                                  One hundred and eighties go into the book
They start on the doubles, it’s now time to cook
Hot dogs and chips come out on a tray
Some pubs treat us to a brilliant array
When we’ve all filled our faces (and pockets as well)
It’s time for the handshakes, then race back like hell.