[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Frank!

[Martin Parker]

John, Thanks for your earlier comments about my Speccie effort on Diogenes -- also for letting it be known that I am not a Bill Greenwell alias.

Much enjoyed your Simeon Stylites, though am still looking for a dictionary which contains "losel."

Despite editing the quarterly light verse ezine Lighten Up Online I have had a real battle fighting the barrage of technology conspiring to keep me off this site. So this could well be my last-ever appearance here.

Am off to post (snail mail for me!) my Dear John letter to Lucy Vickery. If I can master the art of cutting, pasting and temper control I might try to put it up here later!

[Clive]

We met one day in the pouring rain
Upon the great Gromboolian plain,
And all through one of those wintry nights
You made me shriek, you made me roar
Like waves that beat on the rocky shore.
You took me to the towering heights.
We rocked the house in Chankly Bore.
But then, as we lay in the darkest dark,
I saw what I thought was the fiery spark
Of a swift, post-coital Craven A
Its tip illuminating the night.
But it appeared unusually bright.
Still, I fell asleep in the gentle ray
Of that so peculiar light.

I've hung around with some awful creeps:
Flashy sods in bull-barred jeeps;
Wine snobs; self-important bores
And those who just want in your drawers.
And I've spent many a midnight hour
In Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Crying and wondering what went wrong.
But you O Dong!
Are a single perfect rose that grows
Among the dung, but alas, dear Dong
I cannot take the luminous Nose!

[John Whitworth]

Martin, losel is a good enough word for Philip Larkin so it's good enough for me . Larkin got it from his long time lady friend. Oh I do hope you come to this site again. Initially I had some trouble but once the technology begins to recognise you it gets easier. Keep the UK delegation growing.

Clive, you'll have to hack and hew your poem down to sixteen lines if you want to win the untold riches on offer.

Oh, and let me tell anyone who doesn't know, that Marion Shore's excellent effort for this week's competition was commended. Anagrams next week.

[Martin Parker]

Here is a Dear John which may come as a surprise to Shakespeare scholars --

When I consider how I wrote each play
You ever claimed as yours, you worthless blighter,
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth I say
It is to love a thankless, third-rate writer.
Know this, my self-styled Bard, you sore abuse
The one you know is author of your work,
The one whose name you will not let me use.
You cheating, ingrate, balding, little berk!
No more I’ll grasp your withered, blunted quill
And shape love’s torrid lines upon your bed,
Nor strive to grind out other lines that will
Be claimed to be your copyright instead.
By this Dark Lady you are now forsaken.
I’m off, -- to write for cash and Francis Bacon.