[John Whitworth]

A splendid set of winners in the Ascot races with Brian Allgar deservedly a nose in front. Bill Greenwell and I were among the placed. I was remarkably bucked. My first win of the year! And no snobbery, at least from we three!

This looks a very good competition. Come on you furriners. Give us Obama's sonnet, Gillard's Elegy.

No. 2754: political verse
You are invited to submit an example from the Selected Poems of a contemporary politician (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 3 July.

[ChrisGeorge]

Hi John

There must be some inspiration from Romney's time at Bain Capital and his three-car garage with the elevator for the limousines. . . .

Chris

[Lance Levens]

From the Collected B. Obama
(thanks to John's "The Examiners")

When they're bailing on you left and right and you only see their bums,
You long for chums.
When you've told your Chi-Town corner thugs to: "Shake down all your mums!"
You long for chums,
When Holder's nose gets longer every time he flaps his gums,
When Rev. Wright just won't do right, though you've broken both his thumbs,
When MSNBC gets Rev. Al to beat your drums,
You long for chums, you long for chums, you long for chums.

When 'Chelle takes up the jump rope and hides your cigarettes,
It's Nicorettes.
When you're shaking and you're jumpy and so tense you kick your pets,
It's Nicorettes.
When you mooch at VFW's some ciggies from the Vets,
When the hand shake from your smoke free friend is flaccid as it gets,
When a Lucky Strike across a room confounds you with regrets,
It's Nicorettes, It's Nicorettes, It's Nicorettes.

[Adrian Fry]

Nice to see such an international flavour to the ideas for entries. Parochially English as ever, I am going to opt for John Prescott, the language mangling former Labour Deputy Prime Minister famed for his gluttony, his 2 Jags and his hypocrisy in accepting hounours.

[Brian Allgar]

But I hope you'll also be saying something bad about him, Adrian.

[Pedro Poitevin]

Too bad it can't be more than sixteen lines. I've got Romney's villanelle!

[Adrian Fry]

John, 've done Prescott many times before - won a New Statesman comp with a Prescott love poem once. Alas, I keep no copies of my work or I could send that in again - at least a decade has passed.

Although Prescott is in many respects awful, he is one of the last characters in Brit politics. Who, after all, could do Nick Clegg, Cameron or Mililililibland? There's nothing to get hold of but a sort of interchangeable management speak in any of their styles.

[John Whitworth]

I did Tony Blair once. Does he count? After all, he's still alive and lying. And then there's Broon. And I think one could confect a Michael Gove. There are more characters than you think. Of course Enoch Powell and Lord Hailsham actually WROTE poetry.

Here's Tone.

An Ode to the British People

I’m so sorry, oh so sorry, I’m so very, very sorry.
No-one else could feel the pain I do.
There’s no language I can borrow for the sharpness of my sorrow
For the sorry things I did to you.

Oh I wish I hadn’t done them. No I never should have done them,
But I did them and I can’t say more.
I deplore them and I rue them and I wish I could undo them
Which I think is what I said before.

You’re so caring, you’re so clever, if you ever, ever, ever
Could endeavour to forgive me, then
What a wonder would our life be, how harmonious and strife-free,
For I’ll never be as bad again!

Well of course, my little treasures, my remorse is beyond measure,
And I’m sorrier than I can say.
And, my ickle-pickle poppets, should you just contrive to drop it
I’ll be sorry till my dying day,

[Adrian Fry]

John Prescott

Because obviously – and we can all share our differential opinions on this –
Love. I mean, take my Pauline, for instance, else both or either of the Jags,
I can’t imagine life without them; no more the smoker could his fags
But there’s evidentially more to it than just things you’re going to miss.

Because actually – not unwithstanding what the cynics either side may say –
Love. For God or country, for exemplar, or, as in my case, decent scran,
Proper pies, chips in beef dripping – such things as made me who I am,
The stuff that gives life flavour with their savour, what that be it may may.

Because naturally – and I speak for the vast minority in this country in saying so -
Love. I mean, yes, a sexual dimension, that buxom leather trousered lass
As once could bring me to attention with just one joggle of that ass,
But not just her, no, all those filibusted girls the young men want to know.

Because absolutely – and I think I can say that without fear of contravention –
Love. All you need, the Beatles reckoned, and, I mean, who’s going to quibble?
With poets and whatnot backing them up, my tuppenceworth seems drivel.
Pretentious, moi? Perhaps I am; just thought it something I should mention.

[Marion Shore]

If I don't misremember, George Dubya Bush provided loads of inspiration for this outing. But I guess he's not contemporary.