Specccie Do Your Worst by 8th May
 

This looks good though I can't yet see the shape of the thing, as it were. Never mind. You will.

No. 2797: do your worst

You are invited to think of the worst possible title for a poem and then write that poem (16 lines max.). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 May.

Well, I found this.

Bog Standard Comprehensive

Bog Standard Comprehensive,
The only school for me!
Do not be apprehensive:
Bog Standard Comprehensive
In no way is expensive,
It’s absolutely free,
Bog Standard Comprehensive,
The students’ ABC!

Bog Standard Comprehensive
Will keep you on the rails:
The courses are extensive
At B. S. Comprehensive;
No need to be defensive
For no-one ever fails;
Bog Standard Comprehensive
In England and in Wales!

And this. I have to admit I changed the title.

Reassigning Perceived Gender Roles in Financial Staff Recruitment

New findings from the City are
That boys are getting prettier,
With breaths most delicate of scent,
With hair not quite as Nature meant,
With sculpted pecs and burnished bodies,
Faces bland as little Noddy’s,
Smaller brains and bigger eyes;
The pretty girls, contrariwise,
Though still desirable enough,
Are talking turkey, talking tough
And talking serious careers
Which could go on for years and years.
Economists predict no end
To this unprecedented trend

What I want is what you've got

You think I’m just a scruffy yob,
But let me tell you, I have dreams.
I want your house, your car, your job,
Your stocks and shares, your pension schemes.

They say that I could be your double,
Give or take a pound or two,
And if I shaved my three-day stubble,
I could surely pass for you.

So I’ve decided to waylay you,
Steal your papers and your keys.
The hardest part will be to slay you;
All the rest will be a breeze.

Yes, what I want is what you’ve got:
Your money and your gorgeous wife.
I reckon it will take one shot -
I want, and mean to have, your life.

'What I Want'? Good poem, but the title is frankly NOT BAD AT ALL.
Perhaps what Lucy wants is something like this:

My Friend Jimmy Savile

Midnight in Leeds Infirmary;
The nurses were sleeping sound,
And so was the security man
When Jimmy did his round.

He had the fame of a telly star
And he mixed with royalty,
But he loved the ordinary guys and gals,
Jimmy Savile, O.B.E.

He found the weak and vulnerable
In borstal or hospice wing,
And he felt for every kid he found
For feeling was his thing.

When I think how those kids loved Jim
Tears well behind my lids,
And truly I can't tell you all
The ways he loved those kids.

I'm now working on The Pleasures of Flatulence.

Camel Toe

Her name was simply Mary,
And yet she used to go
By "Mary, Mary, Dromedary,"
Thanks to her camel toe.

A piece of dark and simmering brilliance, George, doubtless destined to to top the pile. I shall sneak in first with the F-word, though.

The Petulance of Flatulence

"Darwin's chronic flatulence has been described as a psychsomatic
expression of his guilt for displacing God as the prime mover."

- Bookseller's catalogue

Did a God who said 'Let there be light!'
And arranged the Red Sea's timely parting
Really feel it befitted His might
To have Darwin left endlessly . . .

It's Smegma

Apologies I must now beg
of my sweet and darling daughter Meg.
I hung up the phone when the voice said, "It's Meg, Ma,"
thinking some pervert was whispering "smegma."

The titles will be easy, the accompanying poems less so.

What I Reckon About Darkies
O, Blubberhouses!
Towards a Perpetual Enshrinement of Diversity in the Extruded Plastics Industry
Self-pity in One Hundred and Eight Stanzas

Adrian,

"The titles will be easy, the accompanying poems less so."

I agree. I "found" a nice title an hour ago, while buying a gallon of milk at my neighbor's farm. On a container of Dr. Naylor's Udder Balm beside the cash jar, there it was;

Antiseptic Emollient Ointment for Udders and Teats

Now, I simply have to write the poem. That may take a few days...