Change of direction

In Competition No. 2919 you were invited to write a poem that begins with the first line or two lines of a well-known poem but then takes off in a new and unexpected direction.

It was an exceptionally crowded field this week and the winners below fought off strong competition to take £20 each. Basil Ransome-Davies pockets the bonus fiver.

What is this life if, full of care,
We’ve skid marks in our underwear
Like script on cabalistic scrolls
To trace the passage of our souls?

The chthonic streaks, the karmic smears
Stir to the surface latent fears
Of Hell for acolytes of sleaze
Who stain their pristine BVDs.

To crack these runic secrets might
Disclose an everlasting night,
A sulphuretted pit of doom,
The horror in the laundry room.

If unhygienically we choose
To overlook our moral dues,
We cannot wipe away our sin.
It is the brown stuff we are in.
Basil Ransome-Davies

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And, swollen by the weather’s turn,
I inundate the valley.

I spread abroad o’er field and fen
In depth beyond endurance.
The ruined farmer wonders when
He’ll hear from his insurance.

And slow and sure, ’neath kitchen door
And up through floors I bubble
And rising more, across the floor
I spread my load of trouble.

At last I reach the undredged reen
And join the sea, my mother.
I leave a residue obscene
Of men who blame each other.
Frank Upton

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
So what? It wasn’t with her eyes she won me.
Between the sheets, she’s nothing like a nun,
And I give thanks for every time she’s done me.
The sun is welcome to its realm of sky,
So she gives me warm welcome in her bed.
I eye her not to praise her shining eye,
But for the bright pledge of her aye instead.
I disregard her skin, her breath, her hair —
Mere incidentals, not the main event.
Her down-to-business skills are sweet and rare;
She burns and melts me to my heart’s content.
Eye candy? No, but brilliant vis-à-vis
An altogether sightless part of me.
Chris O’Carroll

Much have I travelled in the realms of Gold-
Man Sachs and many a bonus have I seen;
On J.P. Morgan’s payroll have I been,
And cunning credit swaps adroitly sold.
Oft of a rival bank had I been told
Ruled by Narcissus with a ruthless fist,
And when he wooed me, I did not resist,
By riches and by vanity cajoled.
Once there, with braggadocio and lies,
I wantonly careered towards my doom,
While wiser watchers of the City’s skies
Espied grave clouds, that warned of tempest, loom.
I stared at ruin with scarce-believing eyes,
Silent, before a screen, in darkened room.
Hugh King

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
And wonder what the hell they think they’re doing
The coke they’re sniffing and the pigs they’re screwing.

Where is the power, the passion and the glory?
Gone to the bad, the same old blame old story.
They’re minting money and they’re voting Tory.

None of them do the sort of thing we useter.
They haven’t got the balls, the jungle juiceter
Behave like men and strut it like a rooster.

Their bolt’s been shot. They’ve gone to pot.
They’re finished.
The golden glow is little more than tinnish,
Tarnished, unvarnished, utterly diminished.

These boys of light are curdlers in their folly.
They’ve sold the dream we used to have for lolly,
And scorn the workers’ beer to drink the bolly.
Bright day is done. It makes me melancholy.
John Whitworth

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the traveller,
As he tapped on the ticket booth glass,
In his palm lay the price of the journey
And his new senior railway pass.

In the silence that greeted his query
His attention was caught by a sign,
‘The trains won’t be running this morning,
We’ve a problem with leaves on the line.’

‘And there’s dew on the tracks,’ boomed the Tannoy,
‘And we’re getting the wrong type of snow.
So you’d hoped for alternative transport?
The replacement bus service says no.

‘Engineering works, problems with staffing,
All the drivers have walked out on strike,
If you thought that a train would convey you,
Best forget it and go on your bike.’
Sylvia Fairley

‘’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves’
But what did you expect?
I didn’t switch the spellcheck on
And used predictive text.
John Priestland

No. 2922: fashion design

‘Hoodie’, ‘onesie’, ‘jegging’, ‘coatigan’— some strange words for items of clothing have emerged in recent years. You are invited to come up with your own examples — the item of clothing and a definition. Please submit up to five each to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 28 October.