The Oldie Bouts-rimés comp by 18th Sept
 

We like the bouts-rimés comps, don't we? The words come from this Wendy Cope sonnet:

The expense of spirits is a crying shame,
So is the cost of wine. What bard today
Can live like old Khayyam? It's not the same---
A loaf and thou and Tesco's Beaujolais.
I had this bird called Sharon, fond of gin---
Could knock back six or seven. At the price
I paid a high wage for each hour of sin
And that was why I only had her twice.
Then there was Tracy, who drank rum and coke,
So beautiful I didn't mind at first.
But love grows colder. Now some other bloke
Is subsidizing Tracy and her thirst.
I need a woman, honest and sincere,
Who'll come across on half a pint of beer.

...so all we have to do now is find umpteen different takes on those words, right? :rolleyes:

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

Competition no 194
It’s time for the ever-popular game of old bouts-rimés. A poem of 14 lines, please, using as rhymes these words in this order:
shame, today, same, Beaujolais, gin, twice, sin, price, Coke, first, bloke, thirst, sincere, beer.

Entries, by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman St, London W1T 3EG) or email comps@theoldie.co.uk to ‘Competition no 194’ by 18th Sept. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

TRULY TEARFUL

Dijon’s pleurants weep, not for grief but shame,
which rests where missing mourners rest today,
for counterfeits are losses just the same,
as blended Beaune or bogus Beaujolais.
Purists, like Rheims’ jackdaw, must mind that gin
now set for those who cannot see that twice
times copied tears are just as much a sin -
though half a thousand years has raised their price.
As ’cross the world wash wastes of conjured Coke,
let all recall that those who wept tears first
tasted their salt in truth, unlike that bloke
whose medicine just ministered to thirst.
Though John’s and Cleveland’s copies seem sincere,
it’s wise to check for fakes around one’s bier.

It’s true, alas, I hang my head in shame,
I cheated with my council waste today.
The unrecyclables are not the same
As bottles of Chablis or Beaujolais
Or last year’s presentation Plymouth Gin.
I’m sure it’s only happened once or twice -
Let him first cast the stone who does not sin
And via bulging land-fill pay the price!
I’d rather get force-fed that foulness, Coke,
Or shoved into a pile of dung head-first
Than be the sort of unenlightened bloke
Whose planet-saving zeal’s not like a thirst.
I will reform, in this I am sincere,
And hope past faults are, globally, small beer.

I know it's best, and yet it seems a shame
That I have not yet had a drink today.
(I did have tea, but that is not the same
As vodka, say, or even Beaujolais,
Though I am partial, most of all, to gin).

Sobriety itself comes with a price
Exorbitant as any wage of sin,
And so I forswore drink not once, but twice,
Subsisting on just crystal meth and coke.
(I thought it best to deal with drinking first).

I'm proud to say, I am a drinking bloke
No longer. There are ways to slake one's thirst
Without imbibing. Yes, I am sincere.
I drink no more. (Unless you're counting beer).

Song of Free Will
 

Song of Free Will

In full disclosure found on walls of shame,
Thélème opened its broad church doors today
While Bacchus and his harem did the same.
They drank the liquid text of Beaujolais
And found a bright green traffic light at the gin
Palace around the block they circled twice
To find an even better text for sin.
Their choir sang semiquavers for a price
Intoning the liturgy of snow-white Coke.
And free will reigned upon the street, the first
Rule against rules designed to set a bloke
On a hard day’s bender that would slake his thirst
For the mad grotesquerie that all sincere
Disciples seek in an empty glass of beer.

My years of chastity a crying shame,
I saw a chance for change at lunch today
When noting she and I ordered the same:
Petite steak, pomme frites and Beaujolais.
Already high from drinking beer and gin,
I revved up confidence, said Hi there twice.
My senses sharp, I craved a carnal sin,
No longer cared about the moral price.
Good luck! She spilled a glass of rum and Coke.
Though I stood to help, he got there first,
And as he dabbed her dry, she hugged the bloke,
Who ordered rounds to feed her boundless thirst.
And when he left with her, his tone sincere,
Dad left me there, and I cried in my beer.

Well, stone the crows! Although I enjoy doing bouts-rimés, there was I, thinking this was going to be tough - what a brilliant lot you are :)

I go out for a day, and come home to find Nigel, Jerome, Bob, Susan and Ralph have all done one already, and Brian's done three. (Welcome, Susan, by the way!)

Jayne

Hi Jayne, I just want to say thanks for both the contest and the welcome. I like this kind of challenge, where you have to work with certain words or constraints. In fact, I would love to see what people here could do with David Bowie's 42 words. That might be really fun!

Sue

Hi Sue,

I can't take the credit for the contest, only for posting it here, along with the results each month; The Oldie is a great publication that's been around for over 20 years and I subscribe to it.

If you haven't seen it and would like a copy, PM me with your postal address and I'll send you a recent issue as I keep them to pass on. (That goes for others, btw, ...as long as I'm not inundated! ;))

I had to Google David Bowie's 42 words as I missed that story, but it could become another D & A thread sometime.

Jayne

I always struggle with this comp although I reckon this is my best crack at it so far. The rhymes do kind of insist on a booze theme. Should 'Beaujolais' be capitalised?

If you ask me, I reckon it’s a shame
That temperance is championed today:
A glass of Vimto’s simply not the same
As sipping on a vintage Beaujolais,
And tonic water minus any gin
Is not a drink a drinker suffers twice:
A virgin mary’s miserable as sin
(No vodka, which exacts a heavy price.)
It’s rum to have a rumless rum and Coke,
So see the barman slips a tot in first.
A bloke who’s on the wagon’s not a bloke;
A proper man displays a proper thirst.
Don’t doubt me, pal, I’m totally sincere:
I’ll punch you if you order ginger beer.

That's why I was a bit dubious in post no.1, Rob, about finding enough different 'takes' on it - though Brian's managed some original ways in which to do just that!

Yes, I copied it faithfully from the magazine.

Jayne

Hi Jayne, I'm sorry you had to google up those words, but they do make a great list for the purposes of poetry. I wasn't really thinking of them in terms of end rhymes necessarily, though; more in the line of how many you could use and still have a great poem.

Bowie provided the list to novelist Ricky Moody in 2011 as his response to a request for a way to understand the lexicon of his latest album at the time, called "The Next Day."

The reason I didn't post the link is that I'm not sure if that is one of my posting privileges yet, posting links and images, that sort of thing.

And yes, I hope it does become another challenge in some form here.

Thanks,
Sue

To patronize a hooker's not a shame;
I met a dark eyed hottie just today.
Our views upon this subject were the same;
She claimed she was the toast of Beaujolais.

We both got likkered up on bootleg gin,
And then we reached agreement on her price.
Ignoring consequenses of my sin,
Each orifice of her I serviced twice.

Alas, she slipped a Mickey in my Coke
And robbed me; I was clearly not her first.
Now I'm a poorer but a wiser bloke
Who can't afford a drop to quench my thirst.

My testimony, brother, is sincere;
Steer clear of whores and gin, and stick to beer.

It is one of Wendy's Jason Strugnell Sonnets. Of course the problem in one of Register. You're going to find it hard to write a Miltonic Sonnet with some of these words.

My solution (as bloody usual), like Douglas's, is to opt for filth. Wendy is never filthy. I have two versions, an octosyllabic and a pentameter. The Octosyllabic gives a rather telegram like effect (if you are old enough to remember telegrams?). So how about this? Quotations in the first and last lines from popular song.

Sweet Jesus, ain’t it just a blooming shame –
What price Morality or Faith today?
Papist or Protestant, it’s all the same.
Our local vicar’s pissed on Beaujolais.
Our prettiest choirboy’s pissed on strawberry gin.
I’ve had that little angel once or twice.
His body is as silky smooth as sin,
And really quite competitively priced,
At just enough to stuff his nose with Coke.
It’s bad I know, but, hell, I’m not the first.
Then there’s his sister – why there’s scarce a bloke
Who wouldn’t wish to quench his sexual thirst.
She’s sensual and consensual and sincere,
And does it for a sandwich and a beer.

John,

Filth, you say? But my narrator sees the error of his ways, and offers a moral concluding couplet. And "service" is a perfectly proper agricultural word.

Oh, may we see your Octosyllabic version?

Since you ask, Douglas. Since you ask. And what is wrong with filth in poems, pray. Rochester was a horrible man but he wrote a neat line in filthy poetry.

Lord, ain’t it all a blooming shame?
Religion’s gone to pot today.
Papist or Prot, It’s just the same.
The Vicar’s pissed on Beaujolais
The prettiest choirboy’s pissed on gin.
I’ve had the angel once or twice.
His body, though as sweet as sin,
Is quite competitively priced,
Enough to stuff his nose with Coke.
It’s bad but I was not the first.
He’s got a sister any bloke
Wishes would quench his sexual thirst.
Sensual, consensual and sincere,
She beats a sandwich and a beer.

I regret the loss of my last line.

Oh - have your last line back, John.

"Yours for a sandwich and a beer."

- and a word in Rochester's favour, his best were not always his grubbiest.

Nice one, Nigel. Thank you. He was still a horrible man. He had Dryden beaten up and now he burns in hell.

Oh, John...

Three Johns have I, one righteous, one impure;
Dryden and Wilmot, do I have to choose?
The Third, The Whitworth, is too bloody sure
So I say, sadly: John, John, John - you lose.

Dearest Ann

Rochester briefly fled to Tower Hill, where he impersonated a mountebank "Doctor Bendo". Under this persona, he claimed skill in treating "barrenness" (infertility), and other gynecological disorders. Gilbert Burnet wryly noted that Rochester's practice was "not without success", implying his intercession of himself as surreptitious sperm donor. On occasion, Rochester also assumed the role of the grave and matronly Mrs. Bendo, presumably so that he could inspect young women privately without arousing their husbands' suspicions.

Well I might have been unjust. That is quite funny. His death is also wryly amusing. Syphilis, gonorrhea, or other venereal diseases, combined with the effects of alcoholism. A full house, as it were, and all at 33.

Love a woman? You’re an ass!
’Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The silliest part of God’s creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia's womb
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell, woman! I Intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And, if busy love entrenches,
There's a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches.

I think that is funny. Also illegal. Noble Lords have always been at it. But having people beaten up is not good. I have never done it, though, God knows....

Not you, Athene.

Who said poetry makes nothing happen?

A little mollified, a tad elated,
I take the post above as a retraction
whereby my Johns can all be reinstated.
And now, sit back - Popcorn! Lights! Camera! Action...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUtwSGSRViE

And the excellent Johnny Depp makes four Johns.

There were long Johns, short Johns, Johns of every size.... another of thoe folk poems, by God

Lines to John the Mod from Joan the Wad

Alas, dear heart, if you manipulate
much further your post number twenty three
you will go blind! Coarse hairs will decorate
your palms! I know you're at it. I can see.

My conduct as an acolyte’s a shame,
But I outdid myself at Mass today.
My solo preparation was the same:
To steal some wine, diluted Beaujolais.

To kick it up, I’ve spiked it with dry gin,
And added vodka once, tequila twice.
Of course, distorting altar wine’s a sin
Only if it’s blessed—then Hell’s the price.

For a change, I mixed the wine with coke
Today, a blend I should have sampled first.
Numbly mumbling Latin, a sotted bloke,
Before Communion I had an addict's thirst.

I prayed for Mass to end and felt sincere
When promising again I’d stick to beer.

Ralph - here in the UK to top onesself means to commit suicide. Reading though the poem it becomes clear that that isn't what you mean but Tessa, like me, would probably assume for some time that the protagonist has drunk himself to death and is speaking from the Great Beyond. A tiny tweak is all it would take.

Thanks Ann! Will "outdid myself" work?

Perfectly, if you scan it in carefully; it has a pesky extra syllable.

Ah - I see you've done it and it fits better than the original.

Da whupped my ass when I lost the horshame
back in the wood where earlier today
the collar slipped from our black mule, the same
one that he always sheds, old Beaujolais.
I should've shot him at the cotton gin
next to the glue house. I would shoot him twice
but Da would whup my ass again, a sin
he'd not ignore for long. I'd pay the price
though, just to see the glue they'd make, drink Coke,
salute his end for kickin' me the first
time back in forty-three. An English bloke
sold him to us at Bumstead's bar. His thirst
was legend all around. He seemed sincere
enough for Da who bought him Guinness beer.

Disgusting Images
 

Charlie,

A neat deviation from the drinking theme, but what’s a horshame?


Holding slaves has been my country’s shame
And evidence of that is clear today.
Within the states race bigotry’s the same.
Take life near New Orleans’ Chez Beaujolais.

A brother ordered rounds of beer and gin
And for his birthday made the gesture twice:
Walking home while being black his sin;
White boys beating him to pulp the price.

The boys, inspired by Trump, got high on coke
And beer, thought Trump a rebel running first
For president—a snarling bright-white bloke
Who satisfied their bloody red-meat thirst.

They proved their white supremacy sincere
By pissing on the man to void their beer.

It's a horse hame, Ralph. It fits over the horse collar on draft horses and mules. I took the liberty of misspelling horse to fit my own devious purposes of shames. I am hoping the colloquialism passes muster...

There is no such thing as Guinness beer, Charlie. There is Root beer, whatever that is. There is ginger beer, which Edward Lear could not abide. There is bottled beer. There was small beer. David Copperfield drank it. There is, at a stretch, bitter beer, though it is usually referred to as bitter. And there is Guinness, which is stout.

John, us teetotalers have no feel for beer other than (to me) at least, it smells like cat piss. I reckon I agree with you about the issue except some fellow named Guinness makes a stout beer. (Wikipedia) I will file a complaint against them and Google for misleading my eyes.

I will have to say though that beer chili is quite excellent. It is the cook's choice.

Must have been an American, Charlie. Stout beer indeed!

There was small beer. Strangely, can't find it in the dictionary John, but presumably this was the old equivalent of the 'table beer' (about 1.5%)s served in school refectories in France and Belgium. I remember drinking it with lunch in a school dining-room in France. many years ago. We assumed it was because the public water supply was dodgy. Possibly healthier than soft drinks.

Jerome,

Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier,
Who caught his death by drinking cold small Beer,
Soldiers be wise from his untimely fall
And when ye're hot drink Strong or none at all.

This memorial being decay'd was restor'd by the Officers of the Garrison A.D. 1781.

Ah yes, I'd forgotten that one, John. Didn't the restorers add

An honest soldier never is forgot
Whether he die by musket or by pot.

to quote from memory?

The Americans had better start taking their Budweiser tepid, just in case.