Speccie Sickly Sweet by 15th August
 

Chris O'Carroll, Martin Parker and Max Ross bat for us this week. You are one of us, Max, are you not? For personal reasons (my first, rapidly discarded, career choice was to be a thespian which may explain much about my output.) I was particularly attracted to Martin's entry.

This week's competition will have you all scribbling away. And me too.


NO. 2760: sickly sweet
You are invited to supply an example of the kind of treacly inspirational poetry that adorns the office walls of life coaches and might be quoted by motivational speakers (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 15 August.

Nobody's tried this one which means it must be difficult. Ergo you don't have to be good to win. So how about this one. I don't know how Boris got in there but he did. Is 'you's' OK as a plural? It looks terrible.

Follow Your Heart

Follow your secret heart and true
Success will surely find you.
Pursue the you that's really you.
Leave other you's behind you.

The you that's true is fresh and new,
Simpatico and shary,
Fit, like a made-to-measure shoe,
For life's itinerary.

Trust in your soul to reach your goal.
Do all the stuff you gotta.
Don't droop in darkness like a mole,
But glisten like an otter.

Who dares to care and dares to dream
Ascends the golden ladder.
Amazing grace will bless your team
And make your spirits gladder.

YOU

There's no one with more love than you,
more talent, humor, grace,
accomplishment or leadership.
You don't just take up space.

And when you die, at Heaven's Gate
the happy news will spread.
Saint Peter, when he welcomes you,
will say, "So glad you're dead!"

YOU

The world begins with you.
And what you see, you own.
And you alone are true.
But you are not alone

Welcome, Roger. Come on, the rest of you. Surely ty's not so hard to be bad poets. Good Lord, it's as easy as falling off a .... oh I don't know.

My Pretty, My Poopsie, My Pet

(Pep poetry at a Beauty School)

The you that's buried deep within
is so much more than collagen
or botox or a lipo-sux
(even for a zillion bux).
You're beautiful, you're smart, you're cool.
You're smarter than any petty school.
The world's is just not ready yet,
for you my pretty, my poopsie, my pet.
Just stare at that mirror and repeat:
I'm wonderful, sunnerful, and honey sweet.
I'll sell my sweat and my moxie and sass.
The peasants will beat down my door for a glass.
Oh, it's too too much just being me!
I can't stand it--so much reality!

As easy as falling off a poopsie.

... as easy as falling off a logorrhoea?

You can become a better, kinder person,
Remake yourself, and take yourself in hand;
As everyone around you seems to worsen,
You’ll be a shining beacon in the land.

Ignore the fool, the mocker and the jiber,
The self-deceived, still living in the dark.
Think positive. Stoke up on moral fibre,
The muesli of the soul. Sing like a lark.

Our little book, the fruit of loving labours,
Entitled “Self-Improvement, Head to Feet”,
Will have you smiling kindly at your neighbours
And helping poor old ladies cross the street.

You’ll find yourself more thoughtful and observant,
And when at last you meet the Great Recorder
He’ll say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant!”
(Just twenty pounds, by cheque or postal order.)

Now which one is the mad pace-setter, the one lurking strategically in the middle of the pack, or the dark horse as yet bringing up the rear?

Anything stars can do, you can improve on!
Hear the crowd roar as your legs get a move on!,
Win the Heptathlon with abs like an Ennis,
Whitewash Serena or Venus at tennis,
Swim so much faster than Michael or Missy,
Ride so you make Sir Chris Hoy seem a sissy!


Never despair if in moments of blueness
Doubt should creep in of your wonderful you-ness.
Life is no game for the quitter and crawler,
Tuck in your tummy, look two inches taller;
Only the wimps and the preeners and poncers,
Let down themselves and their corporate sponsors!

Lastly, avoid tales of torment in training,
Forced to plough on with your hamstrings complaining;
Lady Luck favours those full of guts, dash and brio -
Keep that in mind as you roll down to Rio!

All this inspirational stuff is becoming a bit too much for me.

I should improve my body, learn to think ...
On second thoughts, I'll have another drink.