[Jayne Osborn]

As the bingo callers have it: "Unlucky for some - 13".
Let's hope it's a lucky number for some of us.

Jayne

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxCOMPETITION No 159
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro

Now that we’re getting used to the idea of 2013, a poem, please, with the title ‘Thirteen’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 159’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) or fax (020 7436 8804) by 11th January.
Don’t forget to include your postal address.

[Douglas G. Brown]

THIRTEEN

I think that I have never seen
A number cuss-ed as thirteen.
Thirteen, the surly senior cousin
That mocks the celebrated dozen
(Which factors neatly into fours,
Sixes, twos and threes, of course).
And fourteen, though a clumsy beast;
Can spawn a seven, twice, at least.

Thirteen, you are a nasty nit
That never can be cleanly split;
Immune you are to all division,
And luck arouses your derision.
I think it ought to be a crime
That any number should be prime.

[Jerome Betts]

Neat one, Douglas.

[John Whitworth]

An oldie but, I hope, a goldie.

Thirteen

One red queen and two black jacks,
'Lickety-split!' says the headsman's axe.
Wish three times at your room's four corners,
A coffin of bread and mice for mourners.
Five dried beans and six mute swans,
A silver key to a house of bronze.
Seven strong sons and eight mad daughters,
Fire, air, earth and water.
Nine times round on ten pink toes,
'A rose.' says a rose, 'is a rose is a rose.'
Eleven tall guards for twelve tall doors,
And riddle-me-ree at the carrefours.
When the big clock strikes it strikes thirteen,
'Peekaboo!' says the wicked queen.

[Brian Allgar]

The thirteen days of Christmas

My wife walked out on Christmas Eve, she said she’d had enough.
Then, day by day, she sent me cartloads of disgusting stuff:

Twelve outrageous lawyers’ bills,
Eleven claims for child support,
Ten no-longer-needed pills,
Nine repellent ties she’d bought,
Eight CDs I’ve always hated,
Seven films the critics slated,
Six eggs past their sell-by date,
Five old photos of her mother,
Four sardines, obscenely late,
Three expletives from her brother,
Two raised fingers - spread, of course -
One petition for divorce.

The thirteenth day, I won the lottery. Whoopee! I’m rich.
Guess what? She says she’s changed her mind, the greedy little bitch!

[Roger Slater]

THIRTEEN

When I was twelve, for all I'd seen,
it looked like fun to be thirteen,
the age when adult life began
(the Rabbi said I'd be a man),
but when I reached my birthday I
discovered all too promptly why
the number "thirteen" means bad luck.
I found I was the selfsame schmuck
that I had been the day before,
though people now demanded more.
With scraggly whiskers on my chin
I missed the boy that I had been,
the boy that time was poised to kill.
So long ago. I miss him still.