The Oldie ''Limit: Two Tons" competition by 4th March
 

Times have changed. I vaguely remember seeing Tessie O’Shea on television, who was nicknamed "Two Ton Tessie", ironically bringing her huge success, but which would never be allowed in these days of Political Correctness.

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

Competition no 200
For our 200th competition you are invited to let your imagination go on a poem with the title ‘Limit: Two Tons’. Maximum 16 lines.
Entries, by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG),
or email comps@theoldie.co.uk to ‘Competition No 200’ by 4th March 2016. Either way, don’t forget to include your postal address.

This is hard. Here is an effort of mine but it's dodgy.

Limit: Two Tons

Ole Ginge and me got tons and tons
Of bows an’ arrows, spuddy guns
Pea shooters, slingshots, catapults,
The sort of stuff that gets results.

We hide behind a hedge and bang
Bang bang, the trusty Outlaw gang
Has struck again, me and ole Ginge,
We make the high-and-mighty cringe.

We ping the shirt studs off some toff.
Then knock a copper’s helmet off.
The bishop’s bonce, the vicar’s bottom,
The bosom of his wife, we got ‘em.

We two, we got ‘em in our sights,
Vile villains, got ‘em bang to rights,
A game with guns that maims and stuns,
The giddy limit: tons and tons.

Limit:Two Tons


I have a two-ton Dodo bird in my
possession. I've heard they're near extinction.
He sits around a lot; he doesn't fly.
He yaks with an erudite distinction.

He loves pistachios and cashews whole,
and when it's warm he plucks worms from my lawn
and sometimes with his beak snags a mole
out of a tunneled hole. Dodo is "Quan".

I pamper him with nature shows and beer.
Oh yes, he's fond of drink and chips and soaps.
Add that to religious shows and it's clear
that he thinks he's off to heaven, he hopes.

My Dodo is my closest, dearest friend.
Two tons of love, four-thousand pounds of it.
I never talk about his weight, offend
him. I weigh two-tons too, I must admit.

Your villanelle exceeds the 16 line limit Charlie...

Yes, I caught it Rob. Dang line limits. It was a good one too. Back to the drawing board.

The lift’s overloaded – squeeze in a few more
and swing to the rhythm: ‘Keep clear of the door!’
The notice says ‘Limit: two tons' - we don’t care
as we reach for the button marked 13th floor.

The lift starts to rise, then it shudders and tips,
for the cable has snapped and the cabin is hurled
down the shaft like a rocket to earth, and beyond
to the stygian depths of the underworld.

The ferryman waits in his skiff for our souls
as we eagerly clamber aboard in a crowd,
till it lists and it lurches and sinks like a stone
and we’re wrapped in the grip of a watery shroud.

So now we are shades who inhabit the earth
in the desolate realm where the dark river runs;
on the surface there floats, from the wreck of the boat,
unheeded, the warning sign: ‘Limit; two tons.’

Sylvia, I defy anyone to top that - it's deliciously dark!

A sure winner, I'd say.

A perfect response to the brief. Brava!

Thank you both! Dammit, I'll send it...

(Removed - somehow managed to post it twice)