Thanks, Bazza. I have your message now. My inbox was jammed with messages from the hack comedy police warning of dire consequences if I ever do another Richard Dawkins joke in a God-themed competition.

Congratulations to you for your divine obit, and to R.S. Gwynn for having the only human race obit among the winners, and also for winning with a poem in a prose comp.

Last minute entry (trying to maintain the promise to at least have a go each week):

They told us what the problem was: "One under"
- but up till then I'd travelled on Cloud Nine
(well, actually, the Piccadilly Line
from Hyde Park Corner) in a state of wonder.

Another suicide. Oh, not today!
The passengers began to talk, asked "Why
do people choose this monstrous way to die?"
but no one knew. Then I heard someone say,

"A new life has begun, though; it's profound."
I realised the one who spoke was me.
I'd told my secret inadvertently
to perfect strangers on the Underground.

Most days we all get on and off the trains
without a moment's thought for anyone.
Then something happens. When all's said and done
thank goodness our humanity remains.

Oops, I forgot to send mine in. I'm sending them now, an hour or two late, and hoping that they fail to win on the merits rather than missing the deadline.

Tube Times

Of all thy fearsome works, O Lord,
Flood, Fire, Famine and the sword,
Most Potent is the sight and sound
Of London’s mighty Underground.

In Pandemonium below
The silver bullets come and go.
Of steel and aluminium
They come and go and go and come.

They grunt, they grind, they shriek, they cough.
Hell’s Angels stumble on and off.
“Mind the doors!” the devils say
Before each bullet speeds away

To Seven Sisters, Tottenham Hale,
Barking, Balham, Maida Vale,
Hainault, Fairlop, Leytonstone,
Tooting Bec and Mary-le-bone