Dart Players For Pierre-Joubert Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Fen launches a look with bleary eyes.
Shuts them tight as if to memorise
some great event, then
belches bubbles into his glass of gin,
waving a hand, seemingly to dispel the din.

Hoping, perhaps, to power the missile in
(squinting at the board on the distant wall,
searching with his dart, but letting it fall,
then picking it up) Tuff, with a forward motion, farts.

Then the general approbation starts.
The object of the praise is not quite clear:
the score achieved, the method used, the beer
that slops across the table by the tankardful.

Rom picks his tankard up and has a pull,
balancing the vessel on his motile paunch.
He quit the game a little after lunch.

In fact, no one is interested any more
in effort or team loyalty or the score:
three teams are stretched out snoring on the floor.