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but I praise the old boy for his cynical ploy
in suggesting all pleasure’s a bore;
and his name lives today for the memorable way
he tried to show less can be more.
Martin Parker
By thoughts of Lenten Abstinence o’ercast,
My troubled Mind has seen the Light at last:
What serves my Body and the Souls of Men
Is Private Feasting with a Public Fast.
On my Abstemious Platter sits Serene
The Single Pea, the Solitary Bean;
My Breakfast Dish may boast the humble Oat,
But Midnight Secrets soothe my Gut unseen.
For why should Pleasure vanish with the Spring
And sour Negation poison Everything?
Yet to refrain from Worldly Joys awhile
Is still the same old Song the sages sing.
So let me now my Devious Course pursue:
Urge All to Do what I am Seen to Do,
Practise and Preach Restraint — while Out of
Sight,
To mine own Self stay Scrupulously True.
Mary Holtby
I have given up the Bentley and the yacht,
They always were so troublesome to run,
And now my darling Ginny’s sold her Audi for a
Mini —
So we think that this recession could be fun.
Poor Lavinia is feeling quite neglected,
She wears a glum expression on her face,
For she didn’t get the pearls that I always give
my girls —
But a mistress really ought to know her place.
I didn’t have my birthday at the Ritz,
We celebrated modestly at home,
So the London glitterati missed my annual party —
But the absence of the Beckhams raised the
tone.
Now I’m dressing very casually at work,
It isn’t any distance, so I’ll bike it,
The bonanza is finito so I’m going incognito —
And Ginny and Lavinia seem to like it.
Tim Raikes
Sing, muse, to praise the ascetic life:
Teetotal husband, fagless spouse;
Extol and laud and magnify
Those who, until the day they croak,
Lead lives of constant self-denial
And yield not to temptation’s testing.
Pleasures by other folk enjoyed
They conscientiously eschew,
And years of rigorous restraint
Can somehow bear without a whinge.
Such resolute self-abnegation
Should be acclaimed throughout the country.
In writing thus of abstinent men
And women, an ascetic quill
Seems proper: I have deemed it time
To abjure the charm of echoing sound.
Ray Kelley
Now the desert’s growing chiller, and I’m living
on a pillar, an
Address a hundred feet above the ground.
You may wonder why I do it, but there’s really
nothing to it.
I’m a saint and I’m the saintliest around.
My belief burns like a laser; I’m a stranger to the
razor
And my body is a stranger to the soap.
Though you loathe me as a losel, an assault upon
your noseholes,
Still I’m closer to salvation than the Pope.
As a youth, alas, I lusted after prominently
busted,
Shady ladies who were going to the bad.
I’m much wiser now and holier, though a prey to
melancholia
When I think of all the stuff I never had.
An ascetic is the word, if that’s pathetic and
absurd, if
I’m so itchy that I’m bitchy and I smell,
Still I’m Heaven-bound to Jesus, and you lewd,
licentious geezers,
Mark my words, are on the primrose path to
Hell.
John Whitworth
No. 2593: Dear John
You are invited to submit a Dear John letter in the style of an author or poet of your choice (16 lines/150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2593’ by 23 April or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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