The Oldie competiton 'The Apology' by 16th November
 

Clarification: After some slight confusion recently, I can confirm that the address for competition entries is, and will remain, comps@theoldie.co.uk


Let's hope we fare better with this one than with the last competition.

Jayne

From Tessa Castro:

Competition No. 157

Lots of public figures seem to be making apologies these day, for what they've said or not said. So a poem, please, called 'The Apology'. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to 'Competition 157' by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) or fax (020 7436 8804) by 16th November.
Don't forget to include your postal address.

Yes, we didn't do too well, did we? Here's an old thing of mine.

The Apology

Tony Blair, who apologised for the Irish Potato Famine and the International Slave Trade, drafted the Queen’s apology to the Pope, though for what I cannot say.

I’m so sorry, oh so sorry, I’m so very, very sorry.
No-one else could feel the pain I do.
There’s no language I can borrow for the sharpness of my sorrow
For the sorry thing I did to you.

Oh I wish I hadn’t done it. No I never should have done it,
But I did it and I can’t say more.
I deplore it and I rue it and I wish I could undo it
Which I think is what I said before.

You’re so caring, you’re so clever, if you ever, ever, ever
Could endeavour to forgive me, then
What a wonder would our life be, how harmonious and strife-free,
For I’ll never be as bad again!

Well of course, my little treasure, my remorse is beyond measure,
And I’m sorrier than I can say.
And, my ickle-pickle poppet, should you just contrive to drop it
I’ll be sorry till my dying day.

An Apology

For what the other lot call lies
I really must apologise?

Oh, very well then, I regret
The burden of the monstrous debt
That’s put the country on the rack
And turned the tide of progress back.

The ins and outs of why and how
I fixed the Footsie and the Dow
Are matters that I chose to veil
By pruning half the paper trail?

True, those on whom this most impacts
Just can’t be trusted with the facts
But always wickedly distort
Each red-top rumour and report.

So, yes, I say, no shades of doubt,
I’m sorry . . . that I got found out.

Wearing Sackcloth and Ashes
 

Am I sorry for what I did? Yes, of course.
I’m full of contrition, regret and remorse.
I’ve asked myself, Why? but I cannot explain;
with hindsight I know I had nothing to gain.

I’m chastened and penitent, suffering grief,
reproaching myself with renewed disbelief.
I’m licking my wounds and still nursing the pain.
I deserve the rebukes, the looks of disdain.

My conscience is stricken; I have to atone,
do penance and grovel. The fault is my own.
I rue that day now. Had I gone quite insane?
It’s poetic justice: I cannot complain.

They say that confession is good for the soul,
but humble repentance has taken its toll.
I’m sadder but wiser; from this ascertain
--it’s quite safe to say I won’t do it again!

Entertaining, one and all. But - Jerome apart - there seems to be a marked absence of what is being apologized for!

And isn't this a bit close to the NS semi-apology competition? Aside from the fact that it's verse, which I suppose makes all the difference.

You think I'm going to admit to my 'crime', Brian?

Joking aside, there's no mention of saying what the apology is for - which I think is much more fun than having to 'come clean' and explain. We can all speculate about each other's misdemeanours instead! ;)

Jayne

John, perhaps it shows how little faith we have in apology: everyone says sorry, nobody believes they mean it.

(I think this one should be dedicated to Chris O'Carroll, for reasons that he will understand)

They say I said some things, I don’t remember,
But if I said them, well, I guess I’m sorry,
And if I didn’t, there’s no need to worry -
They’ll all have been forgotten come November.

Maybe I spoke of bees within my bonnet?
That ‘forty-seven percent’ still rings a bell.
I may have talked of something else as well,
Although I can’t quite put my finger on it.

They say I said some other things I shouldn’t,
But let’s be fair, it’s several days ago.
I’d happily apologize, you know,
If I could just remember, which I couldn’t.

But I’ll be fine when shove ... err ... comes to push,
And you elect me to the gravy-train,
For presidents don’t really need a brain -
Just look at Ronald Reagan, or at Bush.

Clarification: After some slight confusion yesterday regarding The Oldie address, after speaking to them I can confirm that the email address for competition entries is, and will remain, comps@theoldie.co.uk

Jayne

Jayne, thanks for the clarification. However, the arrangement may not yet have kicked in, as I got the same automatic redirection message as John when I sent an entry about an hour ago.

Was Charlotte Fairbairn aka Tessa Castro then?

Jerome,
I can tell you with absolute certainty that Charlotte was NOT Tessa Castro.

The automatic response that you and John received is just temporarily in place till Charlotte is replaced, but comps@theoldie.co.uk isn't going to alter. Everything being sent to it will be passed on to the real Tessa, have no worries.

Jayne

The Apology

I'm sorry that I did not douse
the flame that razed your lovely house,

nor did I, when the flame was small,
take out my cellphone and make a call,

but since I've spoken with my parson
and learned that Jesus frowns on arson

(a lesson I had failed to catch)
I most regret I lit the match.

The Apology

I'm sorry that I punched your nose.
I'm sorry that I busted it.
The devil whispered in my ear.
I never should have trusted it.
But there it sat, turned up a bit.
My fingers formed a fist.
I looked at you. You're such a twit.
How could a man resist?
In life, temptation's everywhere.
I'm mostly in control.
But holding back so constantly
Can wear upon the soul,
And so there will be times, I guess,
And this was one of those,
When one must do what one must do
And punch the bloody nose!

Sorreeeeee

In Wile E Coyote reality
I've subverted two threads
With unfortunate saids
So here's number three, for finality.

That had me rocking with laughter, Ann!

Father Arnold (Schwarzenegger)
 

Trinacria published this a couple of years ago. It is way too long for the current comp., but maybe I will whittle it down somehow;

Father Arnold

(On May 9, 2011, Arnold Schwarzenegger separated from Maria Shriver, his wife of 25 years. A week later, it was revealed that he had fathered a son some 14 years earlier by his housekeeper Mildred Patricia 'Patty' Baena.
Here, he appears on a TV talk show; with a female interviewer, Maria, and Mrs. Baena. Arnold still doesn’t quite get it, but he does manage to squeeze in the last word.)

“You are old, Father Arnold,” the newswoman said,
“And your housekeeper’s son looks like you.
Oh why did you screw, when you could have got head?
Don’t you think that was risky to do?”

“When I was on steroids, my testicles shrank
To a very diminutive size.
I wrongly concluded my ammo was blank;
So I fired at targets, unwise.”

“You are old, Father Arnold, and you seem somewhat weak
For women besides your Maria.
Your love - child’s exposed, from a tabloid - style leak.
Don’t you think this will ruin your career?”

“My gubernatorial term has run out,
And I’m smeared with political shame.
But Hollywood beckons; where there’s not a doubt
I will soon be returning to fame.”

“You’re a jerk, Father Arnold!” Maria proclaimed,
“With a bastard son out of that cow.
And everyone else but yourself you have blamed.
Would you kindly explain yourself, now?”

“When I wed you, my dear, you were hearty and hale,
With the firm solid flesh of your youth.
Now, like an old witch, you are scrawny and pale,
And excessively long in the tooth.”

“You are scum, Father Arnold!” Mrs. Baena exclaimed.
“Why, you’re turning your back on me, too!
When Maria had dumped you, we’d marry, you claimed;
But now you are saying we’re through.”

“I gave you a job, and I bought you a house,
And financially fixed you for life.
I know that you think I’m a horrible louse,
But I’m on the prowl for a new wife.”

All three of these women, in unison, said
“Father Arnold, sooner or later
You’ll be riddled with bullets until you are dead,
With a woman as your Terminator.”

“Mere servants and women should stay in their place.
You were put on this Earth, it is true,
For the prurient needs of my Aryan race.
Now, it’s hasta la vista to you.”

Very amusing, Doug :D

Jayne

Bill Clinton to his wife, Hillary Clinton

I'm down here on my knees, I'm begging, baby, please.
I'll never ever find another girl like you.
We lie so well together, in good or stormy weather,
We lie so well we don't what is true.

Please drop the private cop you hired to make me stop.
He creeps me out: He ogles when I pee.
I'm begging baby, quit, I'll drop the horn dog bit,
I'll be as true as any stud can be.

And don't buy the latest lie. (Lord, it makes me want to cry!)
I've never met a blond in Motel Six.
You know I like the Marriot, some place where the sheets are hot.
(And there's no such place as Willie's Motel Styx!)

The Iron Lady's Apology

We urged you all to buy the house you rented
And start a little business of your own,
For interest rates were low, inflation dented,
And everyone could well afford the loan.

But shortly afterwards, we thought it best
To let the interest rates insanely rocket;
Businesses folded, homes were repossessed -
We stole the pound you thought was in your pocket.

“People must stand upon their own two feet”,
We said. “We’ll not support lame ducks.”
Yet, seeing all the homeless in the street,
Although they say I couldn’t give two fucks

If suicide’s their sole escape from debt,
Or lightning from the sky should sunder them,
I sometimes feel a twinge of faint regret
For having shot their feet from under them.

Ogles, Lance. Good one.

AN APOLOGY

I'm sorry that I let you think
that I could ever give a wink
who won the Oscar, or the game,
or any war fought in my name,
as if your petty contests and
achievements ever match the grand
accomplishments of butterflies,
as if what you could raze or rise
would interest me, save what you've done
to others, whether one by one,
or two by two, or herd by herd --
I'm sorry that I let the word
"dominion" ever come to be
applied to anyone but me.


David R.

The Apology

I'm sorry that
I wrote that dumb
poem about
the breakfast plum

my wife was hoping
she would eat,
the one that was so
cold and sweet

I'm sorry that my dog destroyed your parka
When you innocently laid it on the bed.
He just can't get enough
Of the flying down and fluff.
He looks just like a snowman that can shed.

I'm sorry that my dog destroyed your parka.
I've told him that he ought to feel ashamed.
Still, it WAS a lot of fun --
Just a parka hit-and-run -
And it's hard to make him think he should be blamed.

I'm sorry that my dog destroyed your parka.
I've spoken to him sternly of my views.
He was guilty, and as such
He regrets it very much,
And feels awful about peeing on your shoes.

Lizzie Borden’s Surprise Courtroom Apology
 

Rather than perform surgery on Father Arnold, I'll try an apology by the infamous Lizzie Borden

(Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.

- Schoolyard rhyme popularized during the double murder trial of Lizzie Andrew Borden, of Fall River Massachusetts, in 1893.) ...

An Apology

Miss Lizzie Borden, on the stand
Declared “I took an axe in hand,
To chop up both my Ma and Paw;
Since that’s what they’d been asking for.

“I hate this Massachusetts town.
Despite my murderous renown,
I’ll make a good Manhattan-ite,
Where I can party through the night.

“I’ll be the idol of the day,
The empress of the Great White Way …
Where Stanford White and Diamond Jim
Will grovel to my slightest whim.

“I trust a jury of my peers,
(You gents well past your middle years),
Will not allow a sweet young thing
Like me, from hangman’s rope, to swing.”

(In reality, Miss Borden was acquited, so legally was not a murderer. She was ostracized from local society, and quietly lived to old age in a new house, in a better part of Fall River.)