[John Whitworth]

George Simmers, on a roll at the moment (unlike some, he said lugubriously) wins the fiver most deservedly. And Bill Greenwell wins too. Well done both. This week's competition looks fun to me. By the way, do you know who wrote the Larkin misprinted line. I do:


No. 2687 misprint
You are invited to take a well known poem (please specify), change one letter in the first line (e.g., ‘They tuck you up, your mum and dad’) and continue for up to a further 15 lines. Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 2 March.

[Roger Slater]

Well done, George.

ENDYMION

A thong of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will cling,
The merest stalk or vine, a paltry string,
A flowery band whose daring, gentle wreathing
Engenders dreams and less than quiet breathing.
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape beneath it moves away the pall,
'Gainst the hot season, in imagined rooms,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms.
We trace its route beneath the sloping butt
And muse upon the thong of beauty cut
To grant us passage to immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

[Max Goodman]

Nice one, Bob.

That "continue" in the directions is a little ambiguous, isn't it?

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Roger. Very nice one.

In what way, Max?

Here are my first thoughts. I'm already having second.


Robert Frost

Whose words these are I think I know.
It’s what’s-his-name, the so-and-so.
You must remember who I mean,
The fellow in the magazine.
Last week – the stuff I read you out.
What was it he was on about?
In fact it was the other night
I swore that he was bloody right.
You can’t remember? That’s because
Your brain-power isn’t what it was.
But I’m still razor-sharp. I never
Fail. You can’t beat being clever.
Do you know I’m putting up for MENSA?
But you’re considerably denser.
Yeah! What’s-his-name. Although perhaps
It could have been two other chaps.

[basil ransome-davies]

This comp is stimulating some zesty wit

[John Whitworth]

Here's more. We await your entrance, Bazza. It's getting the LINE that's so hard.


My Soul is an Enchanted Goat

My soul is an enchanted goat
So winsome and so weird.
He has a splendid shaggy coat
And sports a little beard.

My heart is a triceratops.
She’s so my honeybunch,
Stravaiging round bone china shops
Completely out to lunch.

My spirit is a bath of gin
That wafts in ghostly guise
Reporting on the state I’m in,
With judgements apt and wise.

My body is a house of lard:
I get my daily dose
Frying black puddings by the yard
And duck eggs by the gross.

[Roger Slater]

Speaking of zest . . .

(To His Coy Mistress)

...Had we but world enough, and lime,
This tonic, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and pour our gin
And squeeze the lime and tonic in.
Thou by the barstool wouldst propound
Round after round after limey round,
And I would not one round refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews,
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I drink at lower rate.
...And yet it's almost closing time.
The barkeep says they're out of lime,
And now he's crying out, Last call!
Let's go to my place, drink and ball.
If you like lime so much, let's run.
Inside my fridge I'm sure there's one.

[Gail White]

Gad, the standard is high! All of these are outstanding.

[Max Goodman]

You're right, John. I was being dense. The instructions could mean to keep changing a letter in each line, but that wouldn't be practical at all.

You're right, too, Bazza and Gail. These are good!

[John Whitworth]

Come on, Roger. We can do this for ever. We don't need anyone else. World enough and lime!