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And there in a wood —
No piggy-wig stood!
Deceit’s deadly dénouement now loomed.
The predatory fowl
Heard a blood-curdling howl —
Every cat knows that meant they were doomed.
‘Rakish avian fiend,
Evil, pretty and preened,
I know that you don’t give a hoot.’
Now she’s poisoned the mince
And the slices of quince —
When they found them, there lay her sad note:
‘Oh where was my bong tree?
Oh I miaowed up the wrong tree!
Don’t trust any bird with a boat.’
David Silverman
Paracrostic poets
Are apt to have a go,
Right and left, although it’s
Abominably de trop.
Competitors go crazy,
Restricted by the norm
(One otherwise feels lazy),
So complicate the form.
To others, here’s my plea:
I’d have you understand —
Chaps like me get out of hand.
Put up, I pray, with me.
Okay, not big, nor clever.
Expel a brief sol-fa
To scoff at my endeavour.
So, spy my madder art…
Bill Greenwell
Sarah Palin’s specs
Are real killer-diller
Radiators of sex
Appeal up in Wasilla.
Her skill too with a rifle
Pleases God-fearing folk,
Although moose feel a trifle
Left out of that joke.
If her knowhow seems rocky,
Nuts! Who needs a nerd?
She’s a mom who knows hockey,
She thinks like the herd.
Pro Joe Sixpack, agin
Evolution in classes,
Come the day, they could win,
Sarah P and her glasses!
George Simmers
Autumn’s here again
Usurping summer’s reign:
Tiresome thoughts of Christmas lists,
Unwholesome, chilly morning mists,
Mud in every lane;
November knocking at the door,
Sunless glumness to endure,
Harvest festivals galore,
Endless year-end chores in store,
Relentless wind and rain;
Energy in short supply
As flowers wither, wilt and die —
Growth foredoomed to wane.
And now, as colour fades to grey,
Is autumn all that poets say?
No! Autumn is a pain.
Alan Millard
The Wizards of Oz,
How wholly together,
Especially because,
Whatever the weather,
In rain or in shine, so
Zesty and bright, so
Attracted to wine, so
Red and so white, so
Delightfully witty,
So cute and so clever,
Outstandingly pretty,
For ever and ever.
Onwards, Australians!
Zap all the aliens!
John Whitworth
If sharks had wings,
Fly, fly they would,
Show-offing just
How high they could.
And wrens, if they
Received some scales,
Know well they’d promptly
Swim with whales.
Had man been giv’n
A set of wheels,
Displacing feet
With toes and heels,
Imagine! Foreign oil?
No need!
Gung ho, mankind,
Self-made speed!
Mae Scanlan
No. 2569: Hard times
Happy slapping, cyber stalking, text bullying; you are invited to describe a modern social ill of your choice in the style of Charles Dickens (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2569’ by 30 October or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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