Specccie Do Your Worst by 8th May
 

This looks good though I can't yet see the shape of the thing, as it were. Never mind. You will.

No. 2797: do your worst

You are invited to think of the worst possible title for a poem and then write that poem (16 lines max.). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 May.

Well, I found this.

Bog Standard Comprehensive

Bog Standard Comprehensive,
The only school for me!
Do not be apprehensive:
Bog Standard Comprehensive
In no way is expensive,
It’s absolutely free,
Bog Standard Comprehensive,
The students’ ABC!

Bog Standard Comprehensive
Will keep you on the rails:
The courses are extensive
At B. S. Comprehensive;
No need to be defensive
For no-one ever fails;
Bog Standard Comprehensive
In England and in Wales!

And this. I have to admit I changed the title.

Reassigning Perceived Gender Roles in Financial Staff Recruitment

New findings from the City are
That boys are getting prettier,
With breaths most delicate of scent,
With hair not quite as Nature meant,
With sculpted pecs and burnished bodies,
Faces bland as little Noddy’s,
Smaller brains and bigger eyes;
The pretty girls, contrariwise,
Though still desirable enough,
Are talking turkey, talking tough
And talking serious careers
Which could go on for years and years.
Economists predict no end
To this unprecedented trend

What I want is what you've got

You think I’m just a scruffy yob,
But let me tell you, I have dreams.
I want your house, your car, your job,
Your stocks and shares, your pension schemes.

They say that I could be your double,
Give or take a pound or two,
And if I shaved my three-day stubble,
I could surely pass for you.

So I’ve decided to waylay you,
Steal your papers and your keys.
The hardest part will be to slay you;
All the rest will be a breeze.

Yes, what I want is what you’ve got:
Your money and your gorgeous wife.
I reckon it will take one shot -
I want, and mean to have, your life.

'What I Want'? Good poem, but the title is frankly NOT BAD AT ALL.
Perhaps what Lucy wants is something like this:

My Friend Jimmy Savile

Midnight in Leeds Infirmary;
The nurses were sleeping sound,
And so was the security man
When Jimmy did his round.

He had the fame of a telly star
And he mixed with royalty,
But he loved the ordinary guys and gals,
Jimmy Savile, O.B.E.

He found the weak and vulnerable
In borstal or hospice wing,
And he felt for every kid he found
For feeling was his thing.

When I think how those kids loved Jim
Tears well behind my lids,
And truly I can't tell you all
The ways he loved those kids.

I'm now working on The Pleasures of Flatulence.

Camel Toe

Her name was simply Mary,
And yet she used to go
By "Mary, Mary, Dromedary,"
Thanks to her camel toe.

A piece of dark and simmering brilliance, George, doubtless destined to to top the pile. I shall sneak in first with the F-word, though.

The Petulance of Flatulence

"Darwin's chronic flatulence has been described as a psychsomatic
expression of his guilt for displacing God as the prime mover."

- Bookseller's catalogue

Did a God who said 'Let there be light!'
And arranged the Red Sea's timely parting
Really feel it befitted His might
To have Darwin left endlessly . . .

It's Smegma

Apologies I must now beg
of my sweet and darling daughter Meg.
I hung up the phone when the voice said, "It's Meg, Ma,"
thinking some pervert was whispering "smegma."

The titles will be easy, the accompanying poems less so.

What I Reckon About Darkies
O, Blubberhouses!
Towards a Perpetual Enshrinement of Diversity in the Extruded Plastics Industry
Self-pity in One Hundred and Eight Stanzas

Adrian,

"The titles will be easy, the accompanying poems less so."

I agree. I "found" a nice title an hour ago, while buying a gallon of milk at my neighbor's farm. On a container of Dr. Naylor's Udder Balm beside the cash jar, there it was;

Antiseptic Emollient Ointment for Udders and Teats

Now, I simply have to write the poem. That may take a few days...

Great title, Douglas. 'Emollient ointment' will rhyme with 'Royal appointment'. Just saying.

The Martian poet and publicist, Craig Raine, who masterminded my 'Faber Book of Blue Verse' attempted to win this competition thirty years to soon by penning a ditty called 'Arsehole'. I believe he got the idea from Rimbaud. French scholars among you will know. I don't think it rhymes or anything.

'Snot' anyone? Something polysyllabic that rolls off the tongue, as it were.

John Keats wrote a poem called 'Snot', 'n'
Most think it far better forgotten.
Though certain old fogeys
Assert Shelley's 'Bogeys'
Is quite transcendentally rotten.

If you wish to excel at bad verse,
Eschewing what's witty or terse is
Is most certainly vital,
But sometimes a title
Can make things immeasurably worse.

Good examples are, 'Stroking your Scrotum
While Spinning Round Like a Teetotum',
And 'An Epic on Farts
In Twenty-six Parts'.
Well, I ought to know since I wrote 'em.

Michel Chevreul and the Monsters of Margarine

Monotreme oviparous, ovum meroblastic,
avuncularly acetate, carbuncularly plastic
poly'fluoroethylene in D.D.T. and aspic
endemic to the OAPEC, Monsantoan, and CASPIC.

I have a (published) poem called Unplasticised Polyvinyl Chloride. I once read it as part of a performance in St David's Cathedral, accompanied by a well-known cellist...

Oh, sometime summer's unreturning track... (sigh...)

Roger, that must surely win the prize for Most Revolting Title.

George, do you think it would be better (i.e. worse) if I lengthened it to "What I want is what you've got"? Or is it still too good to be bad?

This is the worst title for a poem I could think of

It just remains to write the thing itself ...
Oh, blimey! This is harder than I thought.
Now, where’s that rhyming dictionary I bought?
I think I put it on the highest shelf.
I’ll have to go and get a dining-chair
To reach it - careful how you do it,
The chair is rather wobbly. Damn! I knew it
The blasted dictionary’s no longer there.
Perhaps it’s on the shelf containing trash?
(Detective stories, thrillers, hard-core porn,
The latter being quite well-thumbed and worn.)
I stretch - but with a godalmighty crash,
xxThe chair collapses. Now I’m really pissed -
xxNo winning poem, just a broken wrist!

Good stuff here. I must admit George's Jimmy Savile will be difficult to beat. Meanwhile here's new, improved 'Snot'.

John Keats wrote 'A Sonnet to Snot', an
Effusion far better forgotten.
Though certain old fogeys
Assert Shelley's 'Bogeys,
A Ballad' is equally rotten.

There's Tennyson's 'Bumfluff', a verse
Neither prettily witty nor terse,
Whose every recital
Shows just how a title
Can make bad immeasurably worse;

Like 'Stanzas on Stroking a Scrotum
While Spinning Round Like a Teetotum',
Or 'Epical Farts
In Twenty-six Parts'.
And I ought to know since I wrote 'em.

How Your Postcode Affects Your Orgasm

(Title of an article in ‘Glamour’ magazine, April 2007)


Most folk with any common sense
Are celibate in NR9;
The jollies there are so intense
They have been known to snap your spine.

A climax in L24
Is barely worthy of the name;
You might not be entirely sure
Quite when or even if you came.

The toes will curl infrequently
In EH21, but you
Will be in fits of ecstasy
Around the clock in CF2.

The petit mort in OX8
Lasts half a second, then it’s gone,
But in E6 it’s bloody great;
It just goes on and on and on!

John, that's horribly good.

Rob, also very good - but where on earth are all those postcodes? Mind you, as an ex-inhabitant, I tend to think that only London needs postcodes, and that everywhere else, they still make do with homing pigeons.

Thanks, Brian. And I agree about Rob's poem.

Only An Asshole Would Read This Poem

Did you read the title and not agree?
Or did you say, "At last! A poem for me!"

You can’t make an omelette with fish eggs

You can’t make a sow from a silk purse,
Not even an ear or a snout;
You can’t make a broth that is decent
If too many cooks are about.

The dog that you failed to leave sleeping,
That mongrel with colic and scabies,
Woke up in a foul-minded temper
And bit you, so now you’ve got rabies.

Don’t stare in the mouth of a gift-horse;
It’s dangerous, stupid and rude.
The Trojans, unwisely, once tried it;
They ended up horribly chewed.

You can’t mess about with the cosmos;
It’s likely to mess you right back.
And you can’t make an omelette with fish eggs -
Their shells are too tiny to crack.

Brian,

Very Nice. The title reminds me on the early 1960's Roger Miller song that begins , "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd".

I think your compliment was meant for Brian.

Roger,
Thanks for the heads up. I have corrected my comment. BTW, you A-hole couplet is memorable, too.

If it satisfies your curiosity they are for Norwich, Leicester, Edinburgh, Cardiff, Oxford and East London respectively.

I kind of thought that it wouldn't matter too much if people didn't recognise them as long as they twigged they were postcodes...

A sort of homage to yours, Brian.

Trisellipsis

You can’t tell a church from its vicars,
You can’t tell a tart by her knickers,
You can’t tell a swan from a budgie,
You can’t tell a kirk by its kludgie,
You can’t tell a chick from a plover…

You can’t tell a nun from a stripper,
You can’t tell a port by its shipper,
You can’t tell a tramp from a totty,
You can’t tell a brat by its botty,
You can’t tell a louse from a lover…

You can’t tell a doll from a duchess,
You can’t tell a fiend by his clutches,
You can’t tell a hearse from a taxi,
You’re off for a life on your jacksy,
You can’t tell a bint from her bruvver…

This reminds me of one of mine:

Mary had a little dram.
She should have just said "no!"
For now she has a little pram
And that 'maternal glow'.

I like this one, though it's very much one for the poets. It's ingenious, off the wall and a trap for the unwary.

Headless Body Found in Topless Bar
 

“Headless Body Found in Topless Bar”,
“Coke Importer Lost From Capsized Boat”,
“Pedophile Gets Whacked in Stolen Car”;
Are headlines which I always like to quote.

“Legless Suspect Not at Risk of Flight”,
“Congressman in Prostitution Snare”,
“Home Invader Shot by Cops Last Night”;
Are headlines which I really want to share.

“Economic Outlook Looks Morose”,
“Unemployment Major Cause of Crime”,
“Heart Attack Was Caused by Overdose”;
Are headlines which I read most all the time.

“Cadillac Gets Power From the Sun”,
“Cancer Cure Distilled From Bovine Pee”,
“Vacant Office Space Plagues Washington”;
Are headlines which I’ll never live to see.

(The title is based on a famous New York Post headline, "Headless Body in Topless Bar". I made the rest of 'em up)

ANAL BEARD

A Stone Age chief, to be revered,
Would cultivate an anal beard,
Comprising hairs of different length and hue.
He’d show it off with pride to those
Who were his friends and, at his foes,
He’d brandish it that they might know who’s who.

The guy who lost, in what is now called Esher,
Was handicapped by anal alopecia.

A Discourse On The Value of Pi

The value of Pi is not very high;
in fact it's remarkably small.
It's a little bit more than 3.14,
but it's so little more that I'm really not sure
if the "more" really matters at all.

Yet the sturm and the drang of the problems it brang
to the brains of a bunch of old Greeks
much though they mooted to de-convolute it
they could not refute it was hard to compute it
for ancient mathematical geeks.

God only knows why one needs to know Pi
to its infinitessimal decimal.
For a guess is enough for a great deal of stuff
and I think it's enough if we work "off the cuff."
So it's 3.14 -- plus a guessimal.

(Dull enough, do you reckon?)

Aiataibt


Acrostics are a verse form that
Invite one to divine
A word made from the letters at
The start of every line,
Assuming they’re read vertically.
I think they’re rather fun,
But tricky, so unhappily
This poem isn’t one.

CONFETTI AND VOMIT

Confetti and vomit
Arrayed on the payment
In abridgement of love
From first rite past estrangement.

A Paean to Extruded Food

Oh, how I love extruded food!
Shrimp that are minced and then combined
with substances that hold them glued
in perfect curls that fool the mind;
onions that, ground up, mixed with paste,
squirted and fried in flawless O’s,
are vaguely oniony in taste;
pressurized cheese that smoothly flows
in lines piped from a metal can,
cheese one can use to write one’s name,
which tastes like no cheese known to man,
shelf-stable, constantly the same.
O triumph of modernity,
you foodstuffs of eternity!

Swallowing Snot

The thing I hate most when I've got
a cold is most certainly not
the coughing or sneezing,
the fever or wheezing:
the worst part is swallowing snot.

Going to the Lavatory in Bosnia


IIf you should ever travel from the town
Of Split to fair Dubrovnik further down
The Adriatic coast, you’d better take
Your passport for the coach will need to make
Its way through several miles of coastal road
The Dayton Treaty awkwardly bestowed
Upon the folk of Bosnia. This chops
In half the nation either side and stops
Croatians passing quite as easily
From north to south as they once did. For we
Intrepid tourists this is all a plus;
Another country ticked off! Lucky us!
And briefly, in a car park by the sea,
We get to stretch our legs and have a pee.

This Poem Sucks

The lesson I would teach you,
the moral that is vital,
the sermon I would preach you,
is always read the title!

Don't scold or lose composure.
The blame is yours alone.
I gave you full disclosure.
This sucks. You should have known.

What I think of bankers

You want to know
what I think of bankers?
I'd like to tell you, but
this is free verse,
so I'm not allowed to rhyme.