Speccie: Short Cuts
 

Bill Greenwell and Chris O'Carroll kept up the honour of the Sphere in the Competition, as you can see. The new one is the sort of thing I really like. I hope you do too.

No. 2671: short cuts
You are invited to submit a poem in which the rhymed ending of each line is a truncated word (16 lines maximum). Please submit entries, by email where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 27 October.

Do you think this means that every line has to rhyme, or just that the lines that do happen to rhyme have to use truncated words?

Yes I think every line has to rhyme.

Today I'm feeling very joyf.
I've got myself a lovely boyf.
Bring out a magnum of the bub.
Today I'm going to ditch my hub.
He's giving me a pile of hass.
I'm finished with the sorry bas.

Thanks, John. I guess the key here is to do what you did in the final couplet, which is to make rhymes of the short forms when the full forms wouldn't rhyme. Otherwise you could just write an ordinary poem with feminine rhymes and clip the last syllable of each line, which isn't, in and of itself, that funny.

Roger, I don't understand. Didn't John do that to all the lines?

Orwn, when I first read "boyf" I filled it out as "boyfull," on the model of "joyful." I see now that it ought to be "boyfriend." So yes, John rhymed short forms when the full forms wouldn't rhyme, but I didn't catch that right off: joyful, boyfriend, bubbly, hubby, hassle, bastard. (Bubbly and hubby are perilously close, though.)

Yeah, you're right. I read too quickly and was thrown off track by the middle one, which would have come sort of close to being an actual rhyme compared to the final couplet. Point taken.

Anyway, here's a lame and offensive start, just to warm up. I'm hoping that the first rhyme is indeed a real rhyme to British ears -- since it's not exact to my American ears.

A cat-loving lady from Bruss,
who fancied herself upper crus,
 one dark day hit bott,
 and no longer snott,
began to live off of her puss.

Before I lay me down to slum
in winter, fall, or spring or summ,
I raise my prayers to God in Heav
and say, "I trust you Lord, whatev
you're cooking up, a curse or bless,
and yet I have a small confess:
I wouldn't mind some health and mon,
a loin more fruitful than a bunn,
a joyous life crowned by longev.
Is that too much to ask? Whatev."
.

I've done a longer version, but I'm not sure the extra lines are worth it:

Before I lay me down to slum
in winter, fall, or spring or summ,
I bow my head, and feeling humb,

I raise my prayers to God in Heav,
for whom I have the greatest rev,
and say, "I trust you Lord, whatev

you're cooking up, a curse or bless,
and yet I have a small confess
I might as well get off my ches:

I wouldn't mind some health and mon,
and if, dear Lord, I may be blun,
a loin more fruitful than a bunn,

a fine career capped by longev,
and far more decades than just sev.
A happy life, in short. Whatev."