Spectator competition: tips of the slung — or poems as the Revd W.A. Spooner might have written them (plus: an author’s acknowledgments page with a twist)

The diminutive, myopic Revd W.A. Spooner was the inspiration behind the recent call for Spooneristic poems. The long-time warden of New College, Oxford bequeathed us such comic gems as ‘The Lord is a shoving leopard’ and ‘kinkering kongs their titles take’. Not everyone was laughing, though. ‘Am I the only one who finds this exercise extraordinarily difficult?’ wailed Brian Murdoch. He’s got a point. Judging the entries was a brain-addling process, so goodness knows what torture it must have been to write them. Still, it was a large and lively entry. The winners are rewarded with a well deserved £25 each. Sylvia Fairley snaffles £30.

Sylvia Fairley Send my abandoned tart to hell In flames, my fuel crate; The witch I’m bedding sent a note, A catalogue of hate.

What balm can ever tease my ears? (I need to know my blows…) She says she’ll book my calls for tea, I’d rather lose my toes.

I’ve ‘wooed her with a lack of pies’? ‘A shining wit!’ she said, ‘Why don’t I go to Bates Motel And shake a tower instead?’

No woman now will heal my start, I’ve flung out hags — a warning That girls, like words, are found to buck Me up; the truth is dawning.

Nicholas Hodgson I could be buying in lead, but no, The dizzy beauties of the day Prevail. No time to kill and boo Or kiss, to whelp me on my hay.

I put the radio on: today’s Stop Tories on the BBC. I shower and dress — tight lie for once; A tasty piece of host, and tea.

I heave the louse, my nosy cook, And then, as ever, fart to steer: Did I forget to dock the law? To lack my punch? Relief: it’s here.

It’s raining now. I join the fey And graceless, as the pain now roars. The warring burqas wait. A crane Trawls in. We mind the dozing claws.

Basil Ransome-Davies My love was racked by faking queers, The kind that banish hope. I gently sought to tease her ears And fill her hole with soap.

She claimed she felt all fig and bat, Like Friar Tuck, she said. A very cunning stunt, was that; It went right to my head.

So did those jests of Bruno, and Soon we were nearly rude. With lips and fingers, hung and tanned, She showed she was pro-nude.

Beneath her bold griefs I could feel Her rare beer, so more-ish. Then I awoke. It wasn’t real, Only a half-warmed fish.

Brian Allgar While putting the lawnmower shack in the bed, I observed that the door had become rather         creaky. Had the minges got hoist? ‘Oh, forget it!’, I said; I was hungry and thirsty, exhausted and peaky,

For lowing the morn is a task I find tough, So I strolled to the restaurant, aptly called ‘Mabel Tanners’. Though crowded with elegant fluff, I was rapidly teated at one vacant sable.

I glanced at the menu, and toyed with the ‘Tongue Served with Lips and boiled Cheeks’, ‘Lack of         Ram’ (à la carte), Or some ‘Real, wild Vice’ if it’s tender and young. And dessert — what about a ‘Trench Raspberry         Fart’?

No, I thought I would stick to my usual fare, And I called the obsequious waiter. With luck, My unruly old tongue wouldn’t cause him to stare When I ordered my favourite dinner: ‘Fried Duck’.

W.J. Webster I shall follow my cart’s horse And grind the face of love: I tope to haste sweet wedded bliss, A-hoy to Jim Above. A helpmeet who will wear my bays, As musty trait of mine; Who’ll share her warmth and beat my head — Extend the lunar spine! I do not yearn for lowing flocks Or fancy tight cold girls; A sappy whole is all I ask — I can’t stand girlish churls. No crook or nanny overlooked, I’ll mind my fate aright; Then by the warrant of my turds I’ll feel our suture tight.

Ralph Rochester To me, alas, the only fame belongs that once I chanced to speak of kinkering kongs When what I meant to say was conquering kings Well, many a man has said more foolish things!

Most other tangled words which bear my name are not my own, It seems to me a shame, That I, who in the schools worked hard and long, Need lend my family name to words said wrong.

I’d like to think the joke is wearing thin. I’d like to think that a distonguished din does not for aye reserve a deputation solely for wangled turds.

Your next challenge is to submit an author’s acknowledgments page that contains subtle indications that no thanks at all are due to those mentioned. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 29 October.