The Oldie "Look, Dad, a cow" competition by 3rd May
 

Goody, back to poems after last month's prose comp. We don't want an udder one of those! ;)
Plenty of scope with this one.

Jayne

COMPETITION NO 163
By Tessa Castro

The English Tourist Board (or VisitEngand, all one word, as it now calls itself), is promoting the country under the slogan
‘Look, Dad, a cow.’ Write a poem with that title, please, applying it in any way you wish. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 163’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email comps@theoldie.co.uk or fax (020 7436 8804) by 3rd May 2013.

Don’t forget to include your postal address.

I don't understand why anyone thinks that is a good slogan for English tourism. Am I missing something? Don't most people have the ability to view cows in their own countries?

I think the idea is that city children are unlikely to have seen a cow or to connect it with milk. We country folk are in the minority, hayseeds that we are.

The sheep is forlorn but the cow is forlorner,
Standing in a field with a leg at each corner.

And I'm told that there are children in France who are convinced that fish are rectangular creatures covered in breadcrumbs.

I have no beef with prose - except, of course, when I don't win. I haven't yet come up with anything for this one, but when I do, I'll find myself on the horns of the usual dilemma: "Should I re-veal it on the Sphere or not? Can there be any be-hoof in doing so? It's a moo-t point."

And then there's the other question: Will Tessa manage to pick the cream of the entries, or will she give the prizes to any old bull?

Though John is very,
Very witty,
Canterbury
Is a city.

Ah but I live in Rough Common close by the village of Blean. Cows and sheep and geese and even the odd fox. Hayseeds, as I said, Bazza.

I know Blean Woods well, lovely spot, used to roam there as a kid, but I don't think 'hayseeds' lived there even then. (I first knew Canterbury when a good deal of its was bomb sites).

Well, the cows and sheep must belong to somebody, Bazza. And everybody round here has at least one big furry dog. Except us, that is.

Our holiday in England started in the countryside.
My son had never seen a cow - he’d eaten them, of course
(At least, he thought he had) - so when, excitedly, he cried
“Look, Dad, a cow!”, I had to tell him: “No, son, that’s a horse.”

Then London, for a talent show. We found the acts revolting;
They couldn’t dance, they couldn’t sing, they mangled every vowel.
The host appeared, a podgy figure, sneering and insulting.
“Look, Dad, a cow!” - I told him: “No, son, that is Simon Cowell.”

We visited Madame Tussaud’s, a curious collection.
He knew “Mad Cow Disease” was caused by Tories acting shady,
So, coming to a waxwork, he established the connection:
“Look, Dad, a cow!” - I told him: “No, son, that’s the Iron Lady.”