What happened to the Rishi Sunak I knew at school?
Most ladies, like Muffet, are convinced they will snuff it If a spider comes in their vicinity, From which they determine a spider is vermin And damn it from here to infinity.
Myself, I confess it, I frequently bless it, This outcome of lengthy mutations; Like Robert the Bruce, I’ve discovered a use For a creature of purpose and patience.
I bought from a vet and keep as a pet A specimen large, black, and hairy, Who is friendly and kind, and daily I find, Has a number of functions that vary.
With ladies who boss me or wilfully cross me, He turns their aggression to choking, While ladies I fancy, like Judy and Nancy, Throw their arms round my neck, and need stroking. Paul Griffin
What’s in a name? For you, I fear, too much: Slug is a word one would not give to such As fill the eager bosom with delight. But why? You make your bashful way by night As though you know your presence might offend Those gardeners who would bring about your end. But when by day — too rarely — you are seen, Your body shimmers with a subtle sheen, In mottled browns, pale golds and bronzes dressed, As iridescent as the starling’s breast. In movement, too, your muscles pulse and purse More fluidly than Mr Universe. No Magic Roundabout grants you a ride: The vulgar taste prefers shells worn outside. But bear your horns with pride: such judgment errs. Your beauties are reserved for connoisseurs. Noel Petty
The water closet may not be The loveliest thing the eye can see, But what a truly welcome sight When stomachs churn at dead of night.
The white and shining porcelain bowl Surrounds the deep mysterious hole Where sparkling, swirling waters send The rank detritus round the bend.
Though plastics prosper, nought can beat The comfort of the wooden seat. Mahogany is best to bear The travails of the derrière.
Praise be, we ladies never knew The problems of the bourdaloue. To Crapper, Armitage and Shanks I tender my eternal thanks. Maureen Melvin
Spaghetti Junction seldom has Bouquets to mark its beauty, as This is for cognoscenti, who Appreciate the larger view. Its coils are airy serpents turned Concrete parabola — those learned In mathematics marvel at Equations visible, and that Theory and form can so combine In sinuous, supple, man-made line. Under its thirty acres thrive Small wildlife, missed by those who drive Its eighteen routes of tarmac space Indifferent to time or place, Or how this columned giant fist is An icon of the vibrant Sixties. D.A. Prince
Evolved perfection of beak and muscle and claw, Of powerful wing and expertly sighted eye, A manifestation of Nature’s proven law: For the fit to survive the old and the weak must die. There’s more to wonder at, more that we must admire As we watch the vultures hover on thermals, till They sense the approach of death, first circle higher, Then drop instinctively straight upon the kill. At the Towers of Silence, on Africa’s ruthless plain, In sequels to slaughter, to plague, to drought, to flood, They know no tenderness, deaths are all the same: Their means of survival, their patient reward of food. The world needs scavengers, cleaners, finishing off The cycle of birth and growth that is Nature’s goal; These are not times to forget their worth or to scoff At vultures, hooded and bent on their god-given role. Alanna Blake
You may think it ugly, a nightmare to drive, But I’ll give you a toast to the M25. The king of all roads, it will take you around The city of London, the jewel in its crown. Consider the villages found to each side, Pratts Bottom and Stubbers, Crooked Mile or Cockhide, Fiddlers Hamlet and Brambles, Dancers Hill or Rooks Nest, But Titsey and Catlips are surely the best. Then the crown is inlaid with historical gems, Magna Carta was signed over there by the Thames, From Windsor to Waltham the Normans held sway Building castles and abbeys still with us today. Where St Albans now stands the Romans took flight When Boudicca sacked the old town in the night, While Churchill at Chartwell in spirit lives still, And are those still Spitfires around Biggin Hill? Tim Raikes
No. 2395: Cantrip In other words, a witch’s spell. You are invited to write a rhymed one (maximum 16 lines) to bring someone or something either good or ill. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2395’ by 2 June.
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