[John Whitworth]

Bill wins money. Chris O'Carroll nearly does. This competition is not really fair to our International friends though I notice ONE Aussie nearly cracked it. This one here ought to give everybody a chance. Unfortunately for me I find te Olympic Games so terminally boring, a kind of super school sports day, that I don't know whether inspiration will strike.

No. 2744 olympian
You are invited to supply a preview, in verse, of the Olympic Games (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 18 April.

[Jayne Osborn]

The Olympic Games? Oh, Gawd.
What rhymes with 'yawn'?

[basil ransome-davies]

"What rhymes with 'yawn'?" As an alternative form of visual spectacle, obviously 'porn'. But that's tediously performance-driven as well. Leaving the country is the best option.

[Jerome Betts]

I take it all back!

[John Whitworth]

Well done Jerome, both for the poem and for being first. I've been writing this while waiting (in vain) for England to get a Sri Lankan wicket.

The Olympics

Let me tell you about the Olympics.
It isn't for sissies or geeks.
You wear singlets and shorts and it's like your school sports
Except it goes on for two weeks.

The Olympians sweat for their countries.
With the running and jumping and stuff.
And the one that does best gets a gong on the chest
For being so fit and so tough.

There's a regular do when they open
With singing and marching and torches.
And rich foreign bods pay well over the odds
To come in their jets and their Porsches.

And when it's all over they'll tell us
Though London's a hell of a mess
And costs are still mounting, no worries, who's counting?
It's been an oustanding success.

[Jayne Osborn]

Great stuff, John and Jerome

Ode 'ere: The Olympic Games

Why did we even bid to host this thing?
I'm dreading all the horrors it'll bring,
the worst of which will be the endless news
of who's won what. I do not care; my views
on any kind of sport are just the same
as all "celebrities" that you could name.

The country will be swamped on every side
by those pretending they've got national pride,
while litter, crime and road rage will prevail.
It's clear to me the Games can't fail to fail!
I shan't attempt to travel south by train
until normality's restored again.

But if they're giving medals out for old
curmudgeons I'll be up there - winning GOLD.

[John Whitworth]

I suspect our transatlantic cousins will not be able to get into the swing of things. How can we HATE the Olympic Games? Ah, brothers, we do, we do. Another thing to thank Tony Blair for. He invades countries and lines his pockets with gold AND he saddled us with the bloody games.

[FOsen]

It might be hell, with crowds from Hull to Dover
And crushing heat and traffic jams and rush;
Remember, in a fortnight, though, it’s over.
Imagine, then, the pacifying hush

That falls, as when a host and hostess rest
Amidst the ruins of their home at dawn,
Having seen their last and drunkest guest
Safely past the confines of the lawn.

Don’t dwell then, on the deep and boundless tide
Of branded trash and tacky souvenirs;
Though that will take forever to subside,
You needn't entertain again for years.

It’s like a rocket’s launch, though millions watch it,
Who ever stays up late to see the thing land?
Once off, it runs itself, you just can’t botch it.
So, close your eyes and think of England, England.

[John Whitworth]

Brilliant, Frank. Brilliant, particularly that last rhyme. I am pleasantly reminded of Joe Brown and the Bruvvers:

Father's at the racetrack,
Mother's playing Bingo,
Grandma's swearing at the telly,
Trying to make the thing go...

[John Beaton]

The Aisles of Fleece

Olympic Games, Olympic Games,
which Heracles began for Zeus,
where heroes seek immortal fames
and wonder Will the sponsors see us?
Through dope-tests and security
they bear the torch of purity.

The IOC and ODA,
with loads of National Lottery funds,
present you with a fine array
of corpulence in cummerbunds,
and athletes too, running and jumping,
with side-show scalping and gazumping.

The opening ceremony will show
the health and cultural wealth of nations,
each peacock-proud, and none moreso
than, gracious hosts of these celebrations,
the British, consigned to mere TV
from impecuniosity.