[Jayne Osborn]

Don't you think that people who write "heated, controversial" letters to The Daily Telegraph about toast racks need to get out more, for pity's sake? They clearly have far too much time on their hands!

Oh well... I haven't seen any of the letters, though I'm beginning to wish I'd seen this riveting debate!

Good luck with it.

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

COMPETITION No 165
There has been heated controversy recently in the letters columns of the Daily Telegraph about the use of toast racks. Please compose a poem with the title ‘Toast Rack’. Maximum 16 lines.
Entries to ‘Competition 165’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) or fax (020 7436 8804) by 28th June 2013. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

[Graham King]

“Toast Rack! -Lord Arthur Rack, of whom to boast
Is mere due. Let all praise him, coast to coast!
For we owe him so much;
What other man can touch
His greatness? So I say to you: Rack, toast!”

“Free energy from fusion: what a whizz!
The key to that discovery was his.
The deserts, irrigated;
Pure water now filtrated;
Clean airships, elevated: all Rack’s biz!”

“To Arthur Rack, I bid you, raise your drink!
Our debt to him is clear to all who think:
He’s brought the world such wealth!
Let’s also drink the health
Of his dear widow Lil – still in the pink!”


[I acknowledge my debt of inspiration to band The Scaffold.]

[Peter Goulding]

As John would say, here's one that I prepared earlier -

Chrome plated Belling from the Swedish lowlands,
purring with pleasure at its rye bread thrill,
seeds of sesame,
pomegranate, pumpkin,
browned to perfection on the shiny grill.

Teflon-coated sandwich maker hums light pleasantries,
gestating paninis in her smooth cream flanks.
Aroma of prosciutto,
porchetta, mortadella,
wafts on the breezes of the Arno’s banks.

Dirty British toaster with its smoke-caked toast rack
leans to attention on its three worn legs.
Bread from Sainsbury’s,
the Co-op, Tesco’s,
groomed to be smothered by scrambled eggs.

[Brian Allgar]

We’re the Spanish Inquisition. We have strapped you in position
For a cosy little chat with Torquemada,
And we feel we ought to warn you as the manacles adorn you
That your chances of escape are strictly nada.

We advise you to be civil; do not tell him lies or drivel;
He’s a moody gent, and can’t abide derision.
As you lie upon the rack, we’ll slowly elongate your back -
It’s an instrument of wonderful precision.

When we turn the wheels and winches, you will stretch by several inches,
And you’ll feel excruciating indigestion.
After many days of traction, we'll conclude, with satisfaction,
That you’ve told the truth and answered every question.

But we have to be quite certain that we’ve drawn each sinful curtain,
And your soul is fit to meet the Holy Ghost,
So we’ll ratchet up the rack until we hear the fatal crack
That denotes the job is done, and you are toast.

[Rob Stuart]

On the same lines as Brian. Sick minds think alike.


The Breakfast Inquisition’s said
To have great expertise
Is making bits of heated bread
Recant their heresies.

A crunchy slice of Mother’s Pride
Will crumble like it’s dust
If told a knife’s to be applied
Beneath its tender crust.

Confession from a sourdough
That’s scorched a tawny brown
Will come when its tormentors go
To fetch the crumbscrews down.

But should these fearsome methods fail
To make their victims crack,
All instruments of torture pale
Before the dread toast rack!

[Janice D. Soderling]

You guys should be writing Broadway musicals.

[Royston Vasey]

Poor toast rack, I lament what you've become,
There was a time when you displayed charred bread
To great effect, for those who fancied some.
Yet lately one observes a thing of dread -
Your rackdom when reduced to leaning letters
(That come from Tom and Dicks who want to shift
Their wares at breakfast time). Next we'll have sweaters,
Shoes and coats about the place, I'm miffed;
Such scurrilous displays are emblematic
Of wider, falling standards on this Isle.
That things aren't what they were is axiomatic,
The state of play at breakfast's often vile:
Time was when toast was racked as God intended,
Not now, a buttered missive's less than splendid.