The furrowed tungsten drills the air
The sixty’s missed but by a hair
The next one wires and falls to ground
The third ones there, you feel the sound
And what you’ve left is thirty one
Fifteen then eights and then you’ve won.
Your lips are dry you take some sips,
You pray you never get the yips,
The first is true, no time to smile
The second misses by a mile
You take a breath and aim that dart
It’s there! A Game? No a feckin art!!
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