[John Whitworth]

And you need to spell Nietzsche right, Frank. As I may possibly have done. Or perhaps not.

I have decided my poem entitled Great Expectations by Charles Dickens would be better as Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett. Assuming the Pratchett novel counts as well-known. Does it, Spherians, does it?

Bazza, maybe I've been unfair to Mailer, though I am sure he can bear it. But I was already well aware, at 17 when I read the novel, that war was a scary business. I believed that there WERE brave men (like John Mills or Gary Cooper) but knew perfectly well that I was not among them. We read that play by R.C. Sherriff at school but I think introspection was enough.

[Steve Mangan]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Assuming the Pratchett novel counts as well-known. Does it, Spherians, does it?

As but one of many of his fans, I should say so!

The Old Man and the C***

For sure it ain't no decent word
but it's one I often heard
from father who sure liked to cus
until our mother up and took us
from the old man and the c*** word.

[John Whitworth]

Thanks Steve. Yes, I'm a fan too. And so, incidentally, was that fine poet, U A Fanthorpe. Your poem is very funny. I think the fourth line needs a bit of doctoring because of the scansion

Till Mother came and somethinged us

would work. You just need to find that something.

[Steve Mangan]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Thanks Steve. Yes, I'm a fan too. And so, incidentally, was that fine poet, U A Fanthorpe. Your poem is very funny. I think the fourth line needs a bit of doctoring because of the scansion

Till Mother came and somethinged us

would work. You just need to find that something.

till Mother finally had enough
with the old man and the c*** word.
???

Is "Inside Mr Enderby" famous enough?

Enderby consumes his vowels
his a e i o u,
To which he adds from consonants
a fricative or two;
After which he moves his bowels
and writes as poets do,
And frequently is quite surprised
to feel a trill come through.

Pfffrrrummmp.

[John Whitworth]

Oh, I think so, Steve. It's one of my favourites anyway.

Here's a morning's work.

The Holy Sinner by Thomas Mann

I’ve a liking for boys
And a liking for liquor,
But, given the choice,
I would go for the boys
For inveterate joys –
Though the liquor is quicker,
Toyboys are Rolls Royce,
For a devilish vicar.

Ah, the lads in the choir,
And the gin in the tonic!
Consider the fire
Of those lads in the choir.
I aspire and suspire,
But it’s more than Platonic;
In priestly attire
I perspire something chronic.

[Roger Slater]

I'm sure this has been covered before, but I can't remember the answer. Is it okay to enter something that has been published before (for example, in Light Quarterly)? I probably have one or two items that can be retitled to fit this competition.

[Don Jones]

The Man Without Qualities

Regardless what I do or say,
No matter how articulate,
It’s hard to know just who I am:
The subject or the predicate?

Near recognized at your eye’s edge
Like streaks in vain across steamed glass,
My face you’ve seen so many times,
Yet never know my name nor ask.

I am the déjà-vu you had
When hearing voices somewhere there.
A nagging sense something’s amiss,
Yet what and who and why and where?

Dequalified is not a word
But if it were it’d serve the gist.
You finally found a name for me:
The man, in sum, ridiculous.

[John Whitworth]

It doesn't say anywhere that it's NOT OK Roger. I also have seen that one can recycle old poems for this competition. To put it bluntly, who's to know?

[Roger Slater]

Thanks. I doubt many readers of the Spectator will recognize a poem published years ago in Light Quarterly, but I didn't want to step on any toes. Meanwhile, I'll continue trying to come up with something new. The problem is, the competition is too open-ended and I need more direction to write on command.

LORD OF THE FLIES

I'm just a worthless household fly,
But Lord, please heed my anguished cry.
My heart will never fathom why
You'd care for such as speck as I
Whom swatters swat and candles fry,
But ere the judgment day grows nigh
Please grant me, Lord, a ham on rye,
A viscous slab of apple pie,
A whiff of some mephitic sty.
There's so much crap I long to try,
Oh Lord, just once before I die.

[John Whitworth]

Ah. Another monorhyme. Good one! Here's one that started life as an entry for another competition, in The Oldie I think.

Honey for the Bears by Anthony Burgess

Our jars of Honey brought the Bears:
Abandoning their wild confreres,
They set up house beneath the stairs.

Beneath the stairs they made their lairs
And lived an idyll free from cares,
Some solitaires and some in pairs.

The stairs supplied their thoroughfares
Where, jubilant as millionaires,
They flashed their sportive derrieres.

Ah, what a perfect life was theirs,
Beneath the stairs, these debonairs,
Insouciant and going shares,

Cavorting, ursine Fred Astaires,
Sweet smelling as boutonnieres.
Prithee, remember in your prayers
To bless the Honey for the Bears!

Don, I should have tipped my hat in the direction of your Man without Qualities. Nice one tpp.