So, summing up the various suggestions you've received, the last two stanzas could be:

Our glorious guns will raze the earth
from north to south and round its girth,
provoking most stupendous mirth
in Kim Jong-un.

Then our celestial paradigm
will rule until the end of time.
No mortal word is fit to rhyme
with Kim Jong-un.

But as John has sometimes remarked, why on earth are we trying to help you to beat us? I can only put it down to the sheer magnanimity of spirit that prevails on this site.

It matters not who won or lost
But how they played the game.

Or however it goes. Why you have not won money in that competition, Brian, I cannot imagine. But then there re those who suppose that X, Y and Z are poets whereas....

Too right, Brian. We are exceedingly generous, helpful, NICE people, here - and if anyone dares to argue with that I'll smash their face in.

Jayne

To say "It matters not who won
Or lost" is, frankly, tosh.
What counts, when all is said and done,
Is: Did you get the dosh?

On does grow tired of being whipped.
My partner "Gerald" has often quipped
that masochists lack all discrimination.
I'l confess: any time, any nation
I'm up for some maso-flagellation.

But now the whole country can scream,
twisting and writhing: an S and M dream!
Just hearing a jet as he soars over head,
I pray he'll drop it right into my bed,
a juicy Brucy to light me bright red!

Here's my last-minute attempt. Since it doesn't abide by the sensible advice earlier in the thread, to stick to Betjeman's stanza-pattern, it's maybe not in with a chance, but I enjoyed writing it anyway.


Come friendly bombs, and fall on Albert Square,
Where life becomes more cheesy than Gruyere
As scripting hacks probe lazily the 'issues'
That get the simple reaching for their tissues.
Fall, bombs, on matriarchs and feckless men,
On Beales and Butchers, Mo and Dot and Den,
For all speak clichés from the cheapest shelf:
'Babe, he ain't worth it,' and 'Don't blame yourself.'
They whinge and weep, and have affairs, and fight,
And (arguments being easiest to write)
Spend half their lives in crass factitious quarrels,
In plotlines patly pointing P.C. morals.
So fall, bombs, fall, till not one single brick
Remains of that unlovely hole, the Vic.
Then, when the devastation is complete,
Head northwards, please, to Coronation Street.

And I enjoyed reading this, George! First class demolition job! It meets Mary Mclean's unease about wishing bombs on real places too. Hope it confounds the cautious 'stick to JB's metre and rhyme-scheme' approach and scores with Lucy as something out of the usual path.

I don't see why it has to stick close to Betjeman. She doesn't say so. You're right about Albert Square, George. Kill them all!

Oh, that's brilliant, George! It echoes my sentiments exactly. Watch Eastenders? I would sooner take out my own appendix with a spoon!

Here's my last-minute entry: I must point out that not a single word of it is true!

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on he
who chose a life of misery,
not for himself, of course, for ME!
His lawful spouse.

At first he seemed the perfect mate
but I did not have long to wait
for love to die. I came to hate
the awful louse.

But he’s in for a mighty shock –
I’ve pulled the plug; no more wedlock
for me. Ha! How his friends will mock.
His wife’s turned gay.

So, hit him with another shell
and send him to his private hell.
I love her, she loves me as well,
OK? Oh, Kay!

I enjoyed your piece, George, although I have to say (and am thankful to be able to do so) that with the exception of Coronation Street, the references are all lost on me. But I got the gist sufficiently to realise that you have selected eminently worthy targets.

I enjoyed yours too, Jayne, and am glad to learn that it is entirely fiction. How fitting, too, that the last two words should be the title of a musical by Gershwin and ... P.G. Wodehouse!