Battle of the sexes
 

It's Peter, Graham, Rob, Jerome, Brian, Chris and John,
Nigel, Adrian, ... The girls? My word, there isn't one!
Every entry up to now's been made by clever blokes,
so that is why I'm trying hard -- I sometimes make good jokes
(see them in print and win a prize, too, every now and then);
- not for quite a while though, as you're too damn good, you men!!! :p

Jayne

Just want to sa youve got the rite idea -
As Grabber boast, this peotry is easy;
You simply count the sylables, and then,
Not bothering with speling, rime or sense,
Even the wet and weedy Molesworth Two
Or squashed-tomato Peason coudnt miss.
So welkum to the skool poetic club -
But watch for prowling beaks; as any fule kno,
Our noble (ha-ha!) masters luv to sneer:
“Rambow must be turning in his coffin!
Now, Molesworth, try agane - and make it rime!”

(Just as I said -- too bloody clever by half!)

But seeryously, thank you Brian; I'me flattud to have me very own peom.

John,

Probably the preferred spelling is "'till". In my geologic writing, "till" has a very specific meaning. I always have written "until" in any prose I have done. I think Miss Webber (who recalled the Lizzie Borden poem from her childhood, when it was news) in second grade taught me to write "'til", in the same sense as "'twas" and "'tis". But, Miss Webber has been in the ground for over 40 years. So, if I write "'til" as "'till" , I guess she will not smack me aside the head with a ruler.

Thanks for your appreciation. I probably have listened to too much country music on the radio. Fourteeners can become addictive.

Jayne and Brian maid me larf!
Fun to reed that?
Ta, not 'arf!

Last Minute Desperation
 

The Muse Erato’s tightly gagged and bound;
Despondent that this competition round
Demands the final letter of each line
Exactly be the same as starts the next.

The outcome … Entrants’ godforsaken texts -
Sent in with rhyme and meter out of whack;
Killing diction like some plastic sack
Kevorkian might wrap round patient’s head;
(Depressive patient, yearning to be dead,
Demands from Jack to shed his mortal coil.)

Lest I be booted from Spectator’s field,
Discreetly now I pray, “I beg you, Muse
Erato (in your sorry shackled state)
Enable me to cleverly finagle
Enough lines for this verse; and then inveigle
Endorsement by the Speccie’s judge's slate.”

Here's a morbid chain poem ......


Do not go gentle into that goodnight,
Thunder and rage until the final breath.
Have some fine malt to soothe the pain of death
Hoping Glenfiddich puts all fear to flight.
There are no happy shouts beyond death's veil,
Live every moment of life's little round,
Do all you can to dull death's awful sound,
Drink and enjoy before your eyes grow pale.
Everything flies from those who choose to wait
Till life is kind; act now and be what may.
Your future will soon fade to yesterday,
Your present is your past when you are late.
Each birth is the beginning of the end,
Do not go gentle, then, to death, my friend.


It seems fitting to finish with the letter that started the poem, end meeting beginning as it were.

A big welcome to you, Marcus, especially to D & A!

Great poem. A fine single malt is the remedy for all ills. It's all my husband ever wants for Christmas and his birthday.
Glenfiddich, Aberlour (a cask strength A' Bunadh) and a Deanston currently grace our drinks cabinet. It's his birthday this Saturday so there'll be even more soon. :)

Jayne

Thank you Jayne - or perhaps spaceebo is in order given your little babushka.

Incidentally, I saw it spelt `TILL (with that odd, backward apostrophe [or has it a special name?]) in the 'Nemi' cartoon strip (which I love) by Lise, in Monday's Metro [free daily newspaper on UK buses and trains].
May I claim a prize as picky pedant of the week?