[John Whitworth]

In the Dear John Competition, Susan McLean, Sam Gwynn and Janet were all just short of the money. Bill Greenwell in it. For overseas readers, Bill is writing about a man called John Prescott. He was deputy Leader of the Labour Party. Think Sarah Palin without the youth, charm, wit and good looks. He also, according to his secretary, who was often in a position to know, has the smallest.... no I won't go there. I will now attampt to give you all the winners on another thread.

No. 2628: Shape shifter
You are invited to submit a contemporary version of the 18th-century satirical song ‘The Vicar of Bray’ (16 lines max). For logistical reasons, entries for this competition may be submitted by email only to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on Wednesday 30 December.

Which means we will be without all those doughty rhymers who do not use email. Heh! heh!

[Julie Steiner]

Hmmm. At least the original Vicar only had to turn the cat in the pan once per 8-line verse. Lucy's 16-line limit will put our cats on a rotisserie!

George Orwell's essay on the Vicar's legacy, although it has little to do with the actual poem, might be inspirational. The Reader's Digest version:

In the churchyard there stands a magnificent yew tree which, according to
a notice at its foot, was planted by no less a person than the Vicar of
Bray himself. And it struck me at the time as curious that such a man
should have left such a relic behind him.

The Vicar of Bray, though he was well equipped to be a leader-writer on
THE TIMES, could hardly be described as an admirable character. Yet,
after this lapse of time, all that is left of him is a comic song and a
beautiful tree, which has rested the eyes of generation after generation
and must surely have outweighed any bad effects which he produced by his
political quislingism.

[...]

I am not suggesting that one can discharge all one's
obligations towards society by means of a private re-afforestation
scheme. Still, it might not be a bad idea, every time you commit an
antisocial act, to make a note of it in your diary, and then, at the
appropriate season, push an acorn into the ground.

And, if even one in twenty of them came to maturity, you might do quite a
lot of harm in your lifetime, and still, like the Vicar of Bray, end up
as a public benefactor after all.

Full essay at http://www.george-orwell.org/A_Good_...of_Bray/0.html

[Julie Steiner]

Oh, rats! Orwell wrote his own revised Vicar poem. So there goes that idea.

http://www.orwelltoday.com/orwellvicarpoem.shtml

[John Whitworth]

George's poem isn't half bad for a non-poet. Just as well he isn't entering. here is mine. The man, Jack Straw, may be unknown to many of you. He has been in Government since 1997 without raising the tiniest wave. Imagine a chap with a famous name like that being quite so null ansd void. He was Tony Blair's foreign secretary and any number of things after that. he will be Lord Straw of Dunghill when (at last) the bastards are gone.

Shape Shifter

Says Tony, ‘Loose the dogs of War.’
Says I, ‘And that I can, sir.’
Says Tony, ‘Score with Shock and Awe.’
Says I, ‘And I’m your man, sir.’

But then the invasion goes tits up;
As Tony learns to rue it,
He drains at last a bitter cup.
Says I, ‘I always knew it.’

Now Gordon needs to look about
Where probity and trust is.
Says I, ‘I’ll be, without a doubt,
Your Minister of Justice.’

I will repeat, in tones discreet,
To all my best endeavour,
There is no shit I will not eat,
Your Man of Straw for ever.

[Julie Steiner]

What are the odds that Lucy will know who Brett Favre is? Slim to none?
He really does pronounce his name "FAHRV", by the way.

I hail from Mississippi. I'm
So modest and retiring...
Retiring for the umpteenth time,
That is. (Unless you're hiring...)

Two Thousand Eight, I quit Green Bay,
but soon I wanted backsies.
Rejected, I went on to play
with New York Jets and taxis.

Two Thousand Nine, I said I'd quit
Again. I'd played my quota.
But re-retirement didn't fit.
I'm now with Minnesota.

So sketch me quick! Don't paint or carve!
Be quick with the eraser!
I'm multi-uniformed Brett Favre,
Flea-flicker of Green Bay, sir!

[John Whitworth]

Neat rhyme, Julie, but you've hit the problem. Asshole politicians are very local. It's a goodie though

[Orwn Acra]

He's a football player. Not your football, ours.

[John Whitworth]

Well, you see what I mean. Why is a footballer like a politician? The answer must be something to do with balls. And what do you mean MY football? I hate the silly game. Not yours. Ours

[R. S. Gwynn]

Julie, having lived for over 30 years in what is called "the westernmost parish of Louisiana," I can attest that no matter how you first attempt to pronounce a Cajun name you'll be wrong:

First-day Roll-call

Mr. Hee-bert
silence
Mr. Ay-bear
Here!
Ms. Ay-bear
Silence
Ms. Hee-bert
Here!
Mr. Go-trow
That's pronounced "Gowtrox."

[R. S. Gwynn]

In old Bill Clinton's golden days, we never knew what war meant.
We bombed Iraqis and the Serbs (whilst I gained my preferment!).
I told my students, to their shock, that presidents' decisions
Must sometimes come as painfully as surgeons' incisions.

Ch. And this is the stance I shall retain
Until my dying day comes,
For TENURE means that I'll remain
When each year's lovely May comes.

In old George Bush's iron days, we heard of WMD's,
And so we searched them high and low through many dark and dim days.
I told my students that we must believe in what we heard in
Each Presidential press release. But Nothing was our guerdon. Rpt. Ch.

The Nobel Prize has landed now on President Obama,
Who tells us that our wars are just, as in Shakespearean drama.
I tell the kids St Crispin's Day will stir us (Kenneth Branagh!)
But wonder still if Justice will drop one last trump on Honour. Rpt. Ch.