The crushed-ice boy in the corner

Has both his eyes fixed on the cup,

But the old hands near the dart board

Have the tournament sewn up.

 

 

Though cocky, preening juniors

Contest the calls across the net,

The veterans the other side

Win at a canter for a bet.

 

Gun-waving youths are boasting that

They’ll stop the flight of helpless birds;

The grey campaigners lurking close

Intend to make them eat their words.

 

The grizzled journeymen take on

Some upstarts who would run the mile.

They break four minutes without sweat

And sprint the last lap with a smile.