The wisdom of age
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.