Speccie Valedictory
 

Well, as so often, we might have been out for a duck, nul point, sweet fanny adams, but for the ever excellent Bill Greenwell. Well done that man. Now the next competition looks positively fraught with possibility.

No. 2699: valedictory
You are invited to submit an ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog’ or to any other creature that is not long for this world (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 30 May.

A little bit of trochaic tetrameter:

Valedictory

When your picnic comes in summer
Then the summer brings the hummer,
Such a bright and breezy fellow
In his suit of black and yellow.

He’s a wasp and it is gospel
Any self-respecting wasp’ll
Write himself an invitation
To your summer delectation.

He’s an instant panic bringer
With his nasty little stinger.
How he irritates and wearies,
But how brief his gay career is.

For a teaspoon or a paper
Serves to terminate his caper.
It’s no more than a hiatus
From his birth to his quietus.

ODE TO A FLY

Among the creatures I despise
are many, friend, but not you.
I have no argument with flies.
Yet soon, my friend, I'll swat you.

Please know, this is not personal.
It's just a nasty habit.
Someone leaves the swatter out,
distractedly I grab it,

I raise my hand and flick my wrist
and smack the windowpane.
And then, poor fly, you don't exist,
except for one small stain.

You're born, you spread your wings, you buzz,
you're zippin' and you're zoomin',
as fine a fly as ever was.
Forgive me. I'm a human.

Ode to an Ailing Newt
 

ODE TO AN AILING NEWT

Ah, here's a sad epiphany—
You, in a box marked Tiffany.

Frank

Sometimes the men in suits
Keep newts.
The Mayor of London did.

Who was this King of Men?
Red Ken,
Not Sam or Bert or Sid.

Tears, Clueless Tears

Our poodle, Mimsey, (still so young!),
is trying to unglue her tongue
which denture cream has firmly stuck
to her upper palate--rotten luck!--
though luck, of course, is just a name
we conjure when no one's to blame.
There, there, Mimsey! Her tongue is sagging.
I call my wife. Is Mimsey gagging?
She is! Our dog is sprawled out flat
and wheezing on our Chinese mat
the way she whizzed in my best shoes.
It's looking grim. "I'd hate to lose
poor Mimsey," I tell my wife, whose eyes
grow moist at the thought of her demise.
Clueless tears for this expiring pup,
who used my shoes for her pissing cup.

Life Line

A smidgen
for pigeon.

My reasons for hating broccoli, worth at least a small Nobel Prize, failed to move the Vickery. So, never say die -- unless you are one of the participants in the following for Comp. 2699 honours.


Jaywalking avian, source of philosophical conundra
from urban highways to remotest dirt-tracked tundra,
since first you hatched what aim could you have had in mind
for trespassing across Man’s Right of Way? Here unkind
Fate brings both our paths together at this cliff-top bend
on which your purpose and my search for it must end.
There’s no time now for idle philosophical enquiry.
We’re wide-eyed, speechless, nano-seconds from expiry,
about to lose my final chance to ask, and yours to know,
what made you want to cross this stretch of bloody ro…..

ODE TO A LOBSTER

Stop squirming, noble lobster,
although the water churns,
I'm told on good authority
you will not feel the burns

but magically, as you submerge,
without an ounce of pain,
your consciousness will pass away,
your shells and meat remain.

Philosophers pontificate
and theologians sputter,
but as for you, the afterlife
means being dipped in butter.

I think that last pair are awfully good, which is bad for me since we can't all win.