More characters than you could shake a dart at...anyone been watching the World Darts Championship, on the BBC, from London..?
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.