With the World Darts Championship, from London, currently on the BBC, I thought I'd post this poem, from when I, and my family, lived in Manchester...
Poem 58 of 230: THE OLD BULL
Walked along Fog Lane, Looked at the park, Stopped in the Old Bull And had a hark, While eating lunch, On how at dark, Many years before, My father's lark, There, was games of darts - I'd filled an arc.