Another dart has been rakishly hurled,
curled to the left of the intended red mark.
One more to spare, a double to win,
too cautiously this time into the dark.
With replenished arrows, I hold my resolve,
determined the next should be my final shot
but some vacuous distraction at the hilt of discharge
ensures my fumbling fingers fall foul of the slot.
My rivals also struggle with the subtle balance
of butter-fingered brush and ham-fisted thrust,
sure that it will be my dart to pierce the heart
I'm distraught to find myself once again bust.
The opponent steps up with a glint in his eye
as all I can do is watch him take his aim,
acquiring the target which I have let slip by
I'm once again on the end of a losing game.