[John Whitworth]

OK, Lubricious people. This should be a breeze. Middlemarch less the starch.

No. 2762: Sexed up
This summer Pan Macmillan is publishing Jane Eyre Laid Bare, an erotic reimagining of the Charlotte Brontë classic. You are invited to submit an extract from your own racy retelling of a classic work of literature (150 words maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 29 August.

[basil ransome-davies]

She dwelt among the untrodden ways.
She never had much luck,
A girl whom there were none to praise
But multitudes to fuck.

[Brian Allgar]

... maybe not, either. On the other hand ...


She dwelt among the shale and mud
Beside the springs of Dove,
Still searching for the perfect stud
Who'd fit her like a glove.

A wholesome life, no greasy chips
Or burgers - she was manic
That nothing pass between her lips
Unless it was organic.

Her charms were famed throughout the town;
Available and willing,
She never let the fellows down,
And only charged one shilling.

She screwed without a moment's pause,
And did each passing chap -
A maid who rarely won applause,
Though many came to clap.

(The “Lubricity” poems, after William Wordsworth)

[basil ransome-davies]

Send it in, Brian, & you've room for another stanza.

[Brian Allgar]

Maybe I will, Basil. But I'd probably better not remind her that these are the "LUCY" poems ...

Another stanza? You got it.

[John Whitworth]

Wordsworth is an obvious banker. Perhaps Tennyson may be another.


I am Sir Galahad, a knight
Renowned in song and story.
I do a thing and do it right.
I do it con amore.

God is my shield and I possess
Astounding magic powers.
I succour maidens in distress
For hours and hours and hours.

How sweet the looks these ladies bend
On me. They melt like butter.
I fight the battle to the end.
I never shrink or splutter.

I parry, thrust and come again,
Insatiate as Niagara.
My strength is as the strength of ten.
I don't need no Viagra.

[Ann Drysdale]

Well, that's fucked his chances for the Holy Grail.

[Brian Allgar]

He's obviously more interested in the Holey Frail.

[RCL]

Echoing Emily (328, 359)

A Bard came down the Walk—
He did not know I heard—
He sang without the briefest pause
Just like moonstruck bird.

And then he sipped a Brew
That gave his sounds some sass,
And sauntered to a gathering group
Hankering for a Lass.

He blinked his restless eyes
And tried to find the best—
Eyes like raging Rings of fire
That surveyed all the rest

And seemed to be Amused.
I asked how he was paid.
With that he smiled, invoked his Muse—
Who always got him laid.

Ralph

[Marion Shore]

I got the impression this was supposed to be fiction (like the Jane Eyre book), and she does ask for an 'extract'. Maybe it could be either-- What do you think?