[John Whitworth]

Melissa Balmain and Mae Scanlan get hon menshes. Chris O'Carroll and Bazza bear away twenty-five quid each and deservedly so. Well done all of you. I must admit a Justin Bieber chest hair fills me with a wild surmise. Does he have them?

This week asks for bad poetry, which isn't all that easy to writte, not when you're trying to make it bad. There are two books I might bring to your attention if it is bad poetry you want, 'The Stuffed Owl' edited by D B Wyndham Lewis and Charles Lee, and Pegasus Descending' edited by X J Kennedy, James Camp and Keith Waldrop - a gem that one!

Ther date beside the Thread Name is the closing date for entries. This is an idea by Jayne, and a jolly good one.

No. 2742: EASTERTIDE

Amanda Kittrick Ros, reputedly the world’s worst novelist, was also a poet. You are invited to take as your first line, ‘Dear Lord the day of eggs is here...’, which is the opening to her poem ‘Eastertide’, and continue, in a similarly bad vein, for up to 16 lines. Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 4 April.

[Roger Slater]

Dear Lord the day of eggs is here
Which even more than Christmas cheer,
Though Christmas cheer is lovely, too,
Is lovely, Lord, all thanks to You,
For eggs are symbols, are they not,
Of what Your Son and You begot
Way back before Creation rang
The bell which heathens call a Bang?
Philosophers all pull our leg
To say the chick predates the egg
When I know deep within my heart
The day of eggs is where we start.
If life's a chicken, there's one catch:
God's chicken need an egg to hatch.
So wake up, kids, get off your keister!
The day of eggs is here! It's Easter!

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Roger


Easter Eggs

Dear Lord, the day of eggs is here.
We climb the hill that you ascended
So long ago in far Judea.
In suffering your life was ended,

Or so the weeping woman thought,
Mary, called Magdalene, the harlot,
Until the breakfast eggs she brought,
At your ascension blushed bright scarlet,

Those hard-boiled eggs she packed to eat
In wretchedness that mourning morning.
She sought to wash your dear dead feet
Evanished in a glorious dawning,

Those feet, those hands, those arms, those legs,
Your body parts entire and matchless.
So, children, roll your Easter eggs.
They symbolise new life, though hatchless.