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Unread 02-23-2012, 08:11 AM
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John Whitworth John Whitworth is offline
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Default Speccie Competition Funny Valentine

Competition: Funny valentine

LUCY VICKERY
SATURDAY, 25TH FEBRUARY 2012

In Competition No. 2735 you were invited to take as your first line ‘My love is like a [fill in blank]’, and continue, in light verse.
Amid the ailments — ‘a drippy nose’, ‘a whooping cough’; the animals — ‘a three-toed sloth’, ‘a sea urchin’; and foodstuffs galore: ‘ripe Gorgonzola’, ‘ a tub of lard’, ‘a rack of ribs’, Bridget Rees’s inventive opening impressed: ‘My love is like a — do you know,/ I don’t know what he’s like!/ I thought I knew for twenty years/ And then he took a hike...’ Honourable mentions, too, to Max Ross and Adam Campbell. The winners get £25 each. Basil Ransome-Davies nets £30.

My love is like a matelot,
Her language strong and salty,
A cold shower for my libido.
My love’s like Sybil Fawlty.

My mental millpond brims with dreams
Of nudeness and vajazzle,
But nothing drowns a voice that screams
At harpy volume ‘Basil!’

My love is like a lethal quiz,
My dipsomania chronic.
If Sybil is the question, is
The answer gin and tonic?

My love leaks grimness on the scale
Of Whistler’s bleedin’ mother.
My love is like an epic fail.
I ought to find another.
Basil Ransome-Davies

‘My love is like a violin,’
The fiddler said with sheepish grin.
‘Slim waist, broad hips, and ‘neath my chin
Nestles at ease.’

‘My love,’ declared the girl in yellow,
‘Is like my old and trusty ’cello.
I like to have a meaty fellow
Between my knees.’

‘Mine,’ said the second clarinet,
‘Is tall and slim and black as jet.
He gurgles with good handling, yet
He’s hard to please.’

The organist joined in the game:
‘My love, I fear, is great of frame,
But great of soul, and does the same
As all of these.’
Noel Petty

My love is like a prickly pear
Beneath her silky underwear.
She boasts a picture of Anubis
Tattooed upon her stubbled pubis.

She gargles Smirnoff, crashes cars,
Recurrently starts fights in bars
And when out of her skull on drugs
Can beat to pulp Glaswegian thugs.

She feasts with gangsters, parties late,
And always packs a .38.
A femme fatale, she is the villain
Of several dirges by Bob Dylan.

My love is like a rocketship,
A cosmic force, an acid trip,
And though we’ve yet to meet, next year
I hope they’ll let me out of here.
G.M. Davis

My love is like a sonnet by the Bard;
I can compare her to a summer’s day.
There’s nothing in her looks I would discard,
Her form excels the darling buds of May.
When to the sessions of sweet, silent thought
I call her to my mind, she brings delight;
If by her longish absence I’m distraught
She is the sun that makes my darkness bright.
And like the sonnet to perfection planned
With easy rhymes that compliment each line,
My love was made by beauty’s careful hand,
Her nature matchless and her form divine.
If I’m in error in the way I dote
I never loved and Shakespeare never wrote.
Frank McDonald

My love is like a three-toed sloth
That’s hanging on a tree.
He hangs about the house, which both
Annoys and angers me.

My love is like a rose’s thorn
That keeps the birds at bay.
He was a grouch when he was born;
He’s still a grouch today.

My love is like the whooping cough,
A mis’rable affliction;
The chance that he would just take off
Is simply idle fiction.

My love is like a boomerang:
I toss him, with a thwack!
And soon thereafter, with a bang,
Unhappily, he’s back.
Mae Scanlan

My love is like a mobile phone
In virtues and in vices,
Unable to leave well alone
But useful in a crisis.

At home or wandering at large
I like her close beside me,
But had she not been put on charge
Approach would be denied me.

A concert hall — the mobile rings,
Unfettered in my pocket;
My love’s loose tongue as surely brings
The news I’d failed to lock it.

Women are mobile, sings the Duke,
Who fished them on a handline —
My girl is safer on the hook
Restricted to a landline.
Mary Holtby
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