Aaargghhh! There I was, polishing up my piece which, as is often the case, consisted of four four-line stanzas with ABAB rhymes, when I re-read the specification and saw that, unlike all other competitions known to man or beast, the limit was not sixteen lines, but the 'F' word - fourteen. So it's not so much back to the drawing-board as hacking at it with a chainsaw.

The swearing and cursing was at a level not usually heard from me unless I'm apostrophising Bill Gates.

Yeah. I had to do a certain amount of surgery too. Curse the fellow!

By the way, John, what's happened to the current Speccie competition, or do I simply need new speccies?

Looks like a bumper crop for this one.

Two from Yeats - The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Classroom 3,
and forty winks have there, while seated down the back;
for Farreller will drone on like a bumbling honey bee
about potatoes and how they once turned black.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.
Forty golden minutes till the lunchtime bell rings;
I hope that Finian Byrner doesn’t stab me in the toe
with one of those compassy things.

I will arise and go now, to Hist’ry I will stray,
to hear a lengthy soliloquy on famine lore;
while I lean back against the wall and drift away,
I hope he does not hear me snore.

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

Had I a pair of Nike Air Max runners,
incorporating tonal mesh and blue satin tongue,
the prince of all looped lace-eyelet runners,
beloved by the young, the old and the half-young,
I would leave them showily under your feet.
But I, being poor, have only second-hand Asics.
I have left my Asics under your seat.
Sniff lightly or you’ll smell my Asics.

I forgot it, Brian. I am full of apologies. It is there now.

When the Frost is on the Punkin, by James Whitcomb Riley
 

The first line of which is "When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, "


“When the heat is on the punkin’ … then a pie is being born…”
If I could be but one king, I’d be the King of Corn.
My backwoods aphorisms sure would wow ‘em in Carlisle;
In joyous paroxysms, they’d be rolling in the aisles.
And if I played Sheboygan, the critics there would gush,
And write “No other boy can create such awesome mush.”
From Atlantic to Pacific, I would win undying fame;
They’d say “That rube’s terrific!” at the mention of my name.
My talent would support me and I’d take the world by storm,
Where royalty would court me and the Pope would praise my form.

But talent is God-given, and wit’s a fickle muse;
So, much as I have striven, I must ultimately lose.
I lack comedic mettle, though my ignorance is bliss;
I guess I’ll have to settle for doggerel like this.

Peter Goulding, your Innisfree gave me a great laugh!

Transport Hell
 

Removed to avoid 'prior publication'

I laughed out loud at that ending, Peter! Well done with both.

On latterly looking into Transport’s Progress
 

Removed to avoid 'prior publication'