[John Whitworth]

Do you know, I thought I had a winner in the Vicar of Bray stakes. But I didn't (ah the Vanity of Human Wishes!) and it was left to Janet to maintain the honour of the Sphere. Congratulations to her. Th full results will be just below this thread, labelled Competition: Vicar of Bray

This week's competition is a splendid thing and I expect a good pile of entries. Come along, people. It's an echo verse we are talking about here.

No. 2631: Endgame
You are invited to submit a poem on a subject of your choice in which the last two words of each line rhyme (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 20 January.

[John Whitworth]

Chris O'Carroll has pointed out to me possibole ambiguity in Lucy';s recipe I think shemeans a verse of this type.

How do you feel when you drink a glass of whisky? Frisky.
How do you feel when you drink a glass of rum? Dumb.
How do you feel when you drink a glass of brandy? Randy.
How d you feel when you drink a glass of ale? Pale.

Techically this is known as an echo verse. There is an example by George Herbert on the net, though Parson George gives the echo words separate lines of their own.

Of course ingenuity could go further. Indeed I have done so. I thought up this lubricious little verse while swimming up and down with the snow falling outside. I hope it doesn't bring a blush to Lucy's maiden cheek. Or indeed to any of yours.

My Toy Boy

I’ve a luscious little toy boy,
Though a beautifully bad lad,
He’s a harbinger-of-joy boy
And a makes-his-daddy-glad lad.

He’s as slender as a slim jim,
And a seriously lewd dude.
I could hymn his every trim limb.
You should see him in the rude nude.

Yes I love him in the tight night,
And I love him in the gay day.
He’s my permanently bright light.
Have you anything to say, pray?

I composed this in a terse verse.
It’s a short song, not a long song.
You could write a lot of worse verse.
It’s the right song, not the wrong song.

[Martin Elster]

Space Exploration

With all those suns, the sky’s a freckle-face place,
Earth serving as a base for the great space race
where nations strove to top each other. Far star,
asteroid, moon, gas giant, granite planet—
no matter the reach, men hoped to span it, scan it
for life or water. They even built a star-car

that moved at nearly lightning-speed. A vast blast
propelled it toward the future or the past. Last
year the space race died like a squashed mite. Night
has spread round Earth. Aliens, offended, ended
man’s trips and explorations, ended splendid
sentient life forms. Win some, lose some. Quite right!

[John Whitworth]

Prime rhyme, Martin

[Martin Elster]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Prime rhyme, Martin

Thanks, John.

[Gail White]

Did we get any results on the palinode thing, which I think was earlier than the Vicar of Bray?

[Susan McLean]

Gail, the deadline for the palinodes was Jan. 6, so I think the results are about a week and a half away.

Susan

[Donna English]

Good one, Martin!

Here goes!


Interrogation Room

What a lame claim.
Ouit the frame game.
Junior’s two, true?
Brainless!…. yooou whooo!?
Nursery school, fool!
Naps and gruel drool.
That’s your back pack
with the smack, crack
and a stun gun.
Is the fun done?

[Martin Elster]

Donna,

The short triplet lines are really fun. Excellent!

Martin

[Marion Shore]

Baby: drooling, wearing nappie. Crappy.
Terrible twos: kick and yell. Hell.
Childhood: neither tot nor teen. 'Tween.
Teen: no longer sweet and dimply. Pimply.
Young adult: the world's your oyster. Roister.
Midlife: gone those lovely vices. Crisis.
Old age: drooling, wearing nappie. Crappy.
Then you die. Bye.