[John Whitworth]

This looks a goodie. I shall certanly give this one a whirl.

No. 2771: hocus pocus
You are invited to provide a rhymed witch’s spell to bring someone or something either good or ill (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 31 October.

[Ann Drysdale]

I'll kick us off. This one's published - but on message...

Last night I lay with him I love,
We did the thing not spoken of;
It ended well but, as he came,
He called out someone else's name.
I love my love. I always will.
I do not seek to do him ill,
Nor do I wish the woman harm
Beyond the limits of this charm.
O Eros, if this once I may
Prefer you over Agape,
Be there when he is next with her
And in extremis, as it were;
Then when he sighs in ecstasy
Contrive to make him mention me.

[Gail White]

That's a gem, Ann.

I'm definitely going to enter this one. For inspiration, I shall dance widdershins around a kettle of boiling newts' eyes.

[RCL]

Bewitched!

Mon dieu! I cannot live with you,
a girl whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells would turn me blue,
moving me to violent tears
with magic that you knew.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who’d melt my mind to glue,
and daily dig my heart out
to boil it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you:
your tongue a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
adieu, you witch, we’re through!

[Brian Allgar]

Semolina, tapioca!
In the cauldron, mix with these:
Yellow press that’s more like ochre,
Sex and scandal, sport and sleaze;
Eyes of viewers, brains of birds
(Tits, of course), and stir them well;
Juice of journalistic turds
To give that vile, putrescent smell;
Half-baked television nerds,
Spleen of hacker, foul as burdock.
Stirring still, we chant the words
To cast the spell on Rupert Murdoch:

“Let the Sky fall, dim the Sun,
May his grubby days be done!
Make the Dirty Digger cleaner -
Tapioca, semolina!”

[Nigel Mace]

Ann - Just wonderful - I particularly loved the "Contrive" in the last line.

[Jerome Betts]

Yes, a winner if ever I saw one, Ann!

[John Whitworth]

Nice ome, Brian. By the way, did you know that Rupert has an Oxford degree - presumably a Rhodes Scholar? The Digger M.A. (Oxon).

Oh, and I second what Jerome said, Ann.

[Brian Allgar]

Another good one, Ann. Lovely punchline.

[John Whitworth]

Here's a reworking of something I cooked up earlier:

A postman's artificial thumb, a peat-fired whistling kettledrum,
A tissue-paper butterdish, an artificial jellyfish,
A ball of electronic string, a postcard (franked) from Mafeking,
A stuffed sea-elephant, a corn scarf (slightly foxed), a vamping horn,
A bar of Martian saddle-soap, an armour-plated, clockwork pope,
A Long-John-Silver folding crutch, an automated cockroach hutch,
A set of silver bat detectors, three crocheted genital protectors,
A sausage magnet (batteries included), a prosthetic sneeze,
A chocolate nose, a midget pig, a ceremonial pubic wig
(As used by royalty), a cork divan, a cardboard tomahawk
Complete with self-adjusting trunnions, a string of alcoholic onions,
A box of sugared quinquiremes, a cornucopia of dreams,
A witches' dance about the pyre, a cleansing dose of holy fire,
An exorcism, couth and canny, taught me by my sainted granny.