[Jayne Osborn]

For next month, please write a limerick (or a sequence of them) involving royalty or a member of the aristocracy (living, dead, or fictional); entries to arrive by 25 October.

(For Brits, that’s by post to: Literary Review, 44 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LW and overseas submissions to editorial@literaryreview.co.uk )

[Jayne Osborn]

Lady Bracknell said, “Handbags are not
made for dumping a newly-born tot.
It would seem altogether
a waste of good leather.
The guilty deserve to be shot.”

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Jayne. Now try these.


King Henry the Eighth was notorious
For his failures in matters uxorious.
When he played on the lute,
Girls thought he was cute,
But his subsequent acts were inglorious.

His six wives were unfortunate folk;
Two divorces, two murders, one croak,
Though Catherine Parr
Deserves a cigar
For surviving the horrible bloke.

[Jerome Betts]

The Quack of Doom

Lord Juniper, all gin and jitters,
Found his digital duck-call transmitters
Out on test at first light
Mimicked mallard just right . . .
And was bagged by a cad who shot sitters.


Dram and Blast

Viscount Groundsel, whose intake of drink
Was tending to grow not to shrink
Fired his rifle one day
At a beast which, they say,
Had no antlers, but tusks, and was pink.

[Martin Parker]

And, supporting Jerome's efforts at waving the flag for Devon poets, how about ....

A red-headed king shot by Tyrrell,
who maybe had thought him a squirrel,
would not have been dead
if he'd gone north instead
and hunted for game in the Wirral.

OR --

A right Norman bastard from France
led Saxon King Harold a dance.
But a poke in the eye
was the chief reason why
the latter died looking askance.

OR -- Though, sadly, I do not think Onan was a biblical aristo but merely a nephew of Technicolour Dreamcoat Joseph.

Since Onan had fiddled around
and spilt all his seed on the ground
it's unpleasant to guess
at the state and the mess
of the crop which the harvesters found.

Or even --

Once Onan had fiddled around
and spilt all his seed on the ground,
of which nomenclature
of strangely formed nature
was the crop that the harvesters found?

Enough from me, I say! This could become a thread of record length and ingenuity.

[Jerome Betts]

Tyrrel-Wirral ingenious, Martin. This could get addictive:

Highland Gamesmanship

Lord Spurge, skilled with pistol and sabre,
Caught his wife at Braemar with a neighbour.
He said, "Sir, you may choose
Which weapon we use." -
And was felled by a twenty foot caber.

Shot-Silk Pattern

Asked to face driven grouse by Earl Dwale
A much peppered lawyer turned pale
And, concerned for his hide
Should some pellets fly wide,
Bespoke tweeds with a lining of mail.

[Jerome Betts]

Hmm, close textual analysis of Jayne's effort makes me wonder about the LR's interpretation of their 'fictional' rubric. I think she may be right that they mean 'taken from fiction', which would disqualify me. Oh well, back to the drawing-board.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Before the Prince bonks Mrs. Simpson
It is said he knows all of the pimps on
The length of the Strand,
At sea or on land,
And the price is not something he skimps on.

And of course Abdication is next,
For he cannot leave off being sexed.
“For the woman I love”
Is dropped like a glove
And becomes an historical text.

He is not very skillful at choosing
His friends. Is he bonkers or boozing?
He becomes quite the patsy
For sponger and Nazi
While betting his own side is losing.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Simpson, in bed,
Performs Asian tricks with her head.
Her organs are strange,
So she narrows the range,
But the details are best left unsaid.

[Dessicated and ailing and old
He is welcomed back into the fold.
As the Prodigal Mummy
That he has become, he
Must leave Wallis out in the cold.]

Edited out for length.

[Jayne Osborn]

Just a little word of caution here, guys and gals - though they haven't mentioned a line limit it's 24 max. for the usual comp, so I'd advise sticking to a 4-limerick total if you're doing a 'story' version. (You might want to lose one, Sam, to be on the safe side.)

Jerome,
You made a "close textual analysis of [my] effort"... and I never felt a thing...
But I think you may be right that I was right (though I could be wrong!)

[Orwn Acra]

........................