Chris O’Carroll The budgie on my mantelpiece, That gem of taxidermic art, Lived blithe until his sad decease. He pecks yet at my grieving heart.
I kept him in an unlocked cage, Intending that he might live free. Well-meaning fool, I set the stage For avian catastrophe.
Badminton was my game the day He found a window open wide. Eager to join with me at play, He spread his wings and soared outside.
The brisk, firm sound a racquet makes — How bitterly that thwock! must mock The heartsore slayer who mistakes A birdie for a shuttlecock.
Mike Morrison O ai, my ai, for you I cry — My friend, fair three-toed sloth; I lost your sister, now you’re gone As well; I loved you both. Shy Guy, fond ai, you climbed too high Into that undergrowth, Your hideaway, the trumpet-tree; To recall your fall, I’m loth. One fateful slip, cruel, careless trip That tumbled you to earth — Quite lost your grip — Thud! – smashed each hip: How little is life worth. Bye-bye, dear ai: I dabbed each eye, Interred you in the ground Then blessed your soul; I sighed, heart-whole — You lived and died uncrowned.
Alan Millard My hamster, being musical — A maestro some would say, Adored my Grand Piano And would pine to hear me play. Since Beethoven was bound to please I’d let her sit upon the keys And squeak in time to Fur Elise Until that fateful day, The day she jumped and disappeared, And still I feel the sting When, playing Fur Elise, I hear That deadened, doleful ping: One note among the sweeter strains That now perpetually pains And marks my hamster’s last remains Stuck to the B flat string.
D.A. Prince ’Twas in the garden’s summer shade We placed the bowl so Goldie played In dappled sunlight, pied. Fresh air for one confined all year Within a perfect crystal sphere, And safely lodged inside.
Our youngest’s favourite fish; his care Ensured that Goldie had full share Of all the family’s love. Untroubled he swam round and round Until that fateful feathered sound: O Nemesis above!
The heron saw and dived and ate; ’Twas Goldie, speared, was on his plate. His one memorial, this bowl That once contained a fishy soul.
Brian Allgar I’d bought a parrot from my local shop; ‘Norwegian Blue’, the owner proudly told me. I couldn’t wait to see it prance and hop, And start to educate the bird he’d sold me. But when I got it home, it never stirred. I took it back, indignantly protesting: ‘The thing’s defunct!’ The owner said ‘Absurd! This parrot isn’t dead, he’s simply resting.’ I glared at him, and bought an alligator; He smirked and smarmed, the fraudulent poltroon. Wielding my pet, I smashed his skull. The crater Was worthy of the landscape of the Moon.
That little bastard’s head was very tough; it Had sadly caused my brand-new pet to snuff it.
Bill Greenwell Well! If the troglodyte that mad’st the wheel Wert here to see his handiwork in motion, Methinks he’d wail and weep a copious ocean T’observe how Hampton, strumming sole and heel Turned his exercise Before our startled eyes ’Til, cheeks aglow, and fame his only spur, He thence became a faint, implosive blur – As if its spinning speed Had driven him to smash that barrier Broken by Typhoon, broken by Harrier. Calamity indeed: For a hamster consisteth of sub-atomic particles, Yet now his whiskers, his tiny tail, Art spread, to a child’s distress, in a trail Of indefinite articles.
Your next challenge is to recast a nursery rhyme in the style of a well-known author (verse or prose). Please email entries of up to 16 lines or 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 27 August.
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