Eratosphere - Competition: Night Music

Competition No. 2665: Night music
Wednesday, 22nd September 2010
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition

In Competition No. 2665 you were invited to submit a lullaby suitable for the modern child. ‘But do lullabies lull?’ writes competitor W.J. Webster, who puts an adult fear of heights (not to mention a horror of half-rhymes) down to repeated exposure as a little’un to the strains of ‘Rock-a-bye baby’. Among the more nightmare-inducing elements that you weaved into your songs for the infant of today were global warming, economic meltdown, gastric bands and cyber childcare. There were more winners than space this week, so bad luck to D.A. Prince, George Simmers and Martin Parker, who narrowly missed out. Bill Greenwell pockets the bonus fiver while his fellow winners net £25 apiece.

Darling shut your iPod
And let your iTunes close
There’s a land called iNod
Where every iChild goes
Prepare to meet your iGod
And warm your wee iToes
iMac, iDock, baby, why
It’s time to rest your tiny i
Here’s an iPad for your head
An iTech for your sleep
It’s time now for your iBed
And counting of iSheep
Remember what the iMoon said
And not one more iPeep
iMac, iDock, baby, why
It’s time to rest your tiny i
Bill Greenwell

Hush little baby, cry no more
Daddy’s gonna get you an iPhone 4
If that iPhone 4 don’t fit
Daddy’s gonna buy you an England kit
When that kit becomes a joke
Daddy’s gonna buy you a bag of coke
When that coke is all used up
Daddy’s gonna buy you a pit-bull pup
If that pit-bull pup won’t bite
Daddy’s gonna buy you a microlight
If that microlight should crash
Daddy’s gonna give you a load of cash
When that load of cash runs out
That’s when you’ll have to do without
Hush little baby, go to sleep
Daddy loves you, but you don’t come cheap
Basil Ransome-Davies

Sleep tight, little mite,
Your Daddy’s at the bank.
He gets a 1000K for pay,
And, let me tell you, that ain’t hay,
Your life will be a holiday,
Your life will be a swank.
Swing high, touch the sky,
For he’s the one to thank.

Sleep sound underground,
Your Mummy’s off her head.
She’s sniffing glue, she’s smoking crack,
Her fella’s giving her a whack,
And Daddy isn’t coming back,
Remember what I said.
Swing low, down you go,
It’s better being dead.
John Whitworth

Little one, your mother’s tweeting
Of your virtues all day long.
Father’s wedded to his mobile.
I, your robot, sing this song.
See, my monitors are busy
Though they long for stand-by mode.
Go to sleep, you little human,
Or we both risk overload.
Were you mine I’d redesign you,
Trash your input-output file.
Mess upsets me, so does screaming.
Spare my circuits for a while.
Here’s my cradle-rocking software,
Now you have to sleep, you see.
If you don’t, your parents love you,
But they might recycle me.
Joan Harris

Trans fats are bad, dilly dilly,
Sugar is too.
I can’t buy food willy-nilly,
Now I have you.
What’s in this canned chilli chilli?
What’s in this stew?
My eyes are crossed silly silly,
Shopping for you.
Melissa Balmain

Lullaby my little soldier,
Bye, bye, lullaby.
You will know when you are older
There’s no time to hit the hay
For golden slumbers through the day
Now mum’s divorced and gone away.
Sleep, sleep, now, you little dreamer:
Bye, bye, lullaby.
You know peace, but Dad’s a schemer.
He dreams of battles in the dark,
Of target practice in Iraq,
And shooting mother in Hyde Park.
Margaret J. Howell