[basil ransome-davies]

A pox on it! My very fibres tremble To wake in Hell, yet like no Hell that was ever writ, can undo a man, be he ever so steeped in villainy. What lifetime's endeavour of roguery and vice could deserve this monstrous show – a fantastical new planet peopled by whores, madmen and sticky-fingered dissemblers, yet withal a giddy merry-go-round of mechanical marvels? The gods in its pantheon are mummers and minstrels, some scarce past childhood, whom a hireling pack of scribblers and acolytes attends upon like slavish, bowing courtiers and whose fornications light up the public prints, while amid the carnival death strides in ironclad battalions, a diabolical energy. Marry, such change might unhinge the brain and send the wits scattering.
And yet 'tis not so changed, after all. What my dazed eyes show me is lechery, lechery, still wars and lechery. Nothing else holds fashion.

[George Simmers]

Puck at a by-election:

What puffed-up poltroons have we posturing here,
Close by a somnolent electorate?
A by-election toward? Then Robin shall
His democratic duty nowise shirk.
I shall participate. I'll take the form
Of a faulty P.A. system, so they'll seem
To mouth like voiceless loons. Then shall I be
A baby who'll be hugged for show, whereat
I'll puke with vigour down those smart dark suits.
Or else a bigoted woman I shall be,
Who'll trick them into much-regretted rants.
I'll make their posters peel; all leaflets shall
Be rich with misprints comical and gross.
Then 'mongst the ballots I'll play hide-and seek,
Till recount after recount lasts all week!

[FOsen]

List, list, O, list! I’m C-List now, at most,
and that’s no place for Hamlet’s father’s ghost—
condemned to work a “Haunted London” tour,
where though my voice and visage are still dour,
childish laughter always greets my line
about the fearsome, fretful porpentine.
Doomed to haunt my agent’s by the day,
who offers only prospects without pay,
like—O, and what a falling off was here—
that public health campaign for swimmer’s ear.
But now I’m not forbad to tell my tale
and hope to sell a series to The Mail,
then get a brow-lift and a facial peel,
switch to ICM, and ink a deal,
which may once more my fading shade illumine,
when I debut on next year’s Being Human.

[George Simmers]

That one reads like a winner to me, Frank.

[Lance Levens]

Illumine and Being Human! Terrific, Frank.

[Catherine Tufariello]

Somebody’s trying to make an ass of me,
‘Tis sure. Methinks those rascals, Quince and Snout,
Gleek me for sport. I napped against a tree
And woke translated, with some thickskin lout

Calling me “Butthead,” saying I’d missed my cue.
“D’you want a chance at singing for the Queen
Or not?” says he. “Get up!” Next thing I knew
A groundling mob, well dressed but coarse & mean

(Unarmed with rotten eggs, for which I thanked
Dame Fortune), jeered my name & that sweet song
About my dream. “Sir Bottom’s gotten spanked,”
Cracks a rude wag in front. “Buzzed out! So long!”

‘Twas then (rare vision!) that She did appear—
A Lady all in gold, with ebon brows,
Singing the dream she dreamed. My dulcet dear,
May I not wake till we have ta’en our vows!

[Martin Parker]

Ariel In London, 2011

Where the bee sucked there sucked I.
But here, they tell me, by and by
bees may well no longer suck
since parasites have run amok,
while climate change has also wrecked a
prospect of my finding nectar.

They've offered me a Nectar Card,
a shiny, tasteless, plastic shard.
This substitute has no attraction.
Plastic brings no satisfaction
for a hungry gourmet sprite.
I doubt that I shall last the night.

I'd fly home on my trusty bat,
but just one look has shown me that
the way a bat's built makes it hard
to insert an Oyster Card.