In Competition No. 2613 you were invited to submit a cautionary tale for our times, in the style of Hilaire Belloc, about the consequences of too much time spent texting or on social networking sites.
The grisly fates of Belloc’s creations — Jim, eaten feet upwards by a lion, and Mathilda, burnt to a crisp — both thrill and appal children. I remember being puzzled, though, by a moral universe in which Algernon, who narrowly fails in his attempt to shoot his sister with a loaded rifle, gets off with a light reprimand; while Rebecca, for the relatively innocuous crime of slamming doors, perishes miserably, flattened by a marble bust of Abraham.
In this age of child-centred parenting, Franklin Hide, shaken and hit till it hurt by his uncle, would no doubt be straight on the blower to Childline, but that didn’t stop you inventing some magnificently cruel and hideous comeuppances for 21st-century transgressors. This week’s bonus fiver belongs to D.A. Prince. Her fellow winners, printed below, get £30 each.
Augustus Bloke was mobile-mad:
he texted every friend he had.
With thumbs a-twitch he spent his days
mailing and texting on the ways
he filled his time. His girlfriend moaned
how he’d proposed to her (he’d phoned!)
and how the only ring he knew
was when a call was coming through.
But still, they fixed a wedding date;
she was on time, but he was late,
on Twitter through their vows till, vexed,
she played his game and sent a text.
Her message (it could be predicted):
It’s over, Gussie; you’re evicted.
Moral:
If you don’t wish to sleep alone,
put your wife first, and not your phone.
D.A. Prince
Samantha, having learnt to twitter,
Scattered tweets like cyber litter;
Each non-event her life produced
Was posted, suitably reduced,
For all her followers to share
(No matter that they didn’t care)
Until at last her thumb went numb,
Which struck her digitally dumb.
Then, when she tried to speak instead
No one could get a word she said:
For now to her dismay she found
She couldn’t turn her thoughts to sound.
One last attempt took all her breath
And caused, the inquest found, her death.
So twitter, if you must, but do
Make time for conversation too.
W.J. Webster
Young Darren could not write or read
For, truth to tell, there was no need.
He’d text his classmates all the day
In cryptic notes — so much to say!
A-level time came up at last:
Darren was thrilled to learn he’d passed
All his exams with triple A.
And so he proudly went away
To UNI. Wrote home ‘Now IC
Life here is quite E123’.
And then, ‘I’m hngry plz snd $’
(His finances were in a mess!)
His parents found it quite absurd
And didn’t understand a word,
So they sent nothing. Sad to say,
Young Darren starved and passed away.
Shirley Curran
The Chief Defect of Rose Elaine
Was using her capacious Brain
To type (for she eschewed the Pen)
To sundry Friends on MSN,
Espousing thus with horrid glee
Unorthodox Orthography —
In this, despite her Teachers’ scorn,
She never ceased from Dusk to Dawn.
One night, she surfed the In-Between
Beyond her blue Computer Screen,
And vanished without trail or trace
Into the depths of Cyberspace.
Her Parents, who were unaware,
Discovering her Room was bare,
Shut down the System, learning later
That they could not retrieve her Data.
Bill Greenwell
Though Alice was considered nice,
She practised an annoying vice:
She would incontinently text.
The second she’d sent one, the next
Would be composed with nimble hands
And frequent use of ampersands.
Indifferent to the money spent,
She texted everywhere she went.
One afternoon in Kensal Rise,
Her mobile screen before her eyes,
Through inattention and ill luck
She failed to see a brewer’s truck,
Which left, alas, poor Alice dead.
She’d failed to heed what Mother said:
‘Always be sure, my dear, to shrink
From men who’ve had a load of drink.’
Basil Ransome-Davies
That throughout lessons She would Text
The Macho Lads around the School,
Which they Ignored, for they were Cool.
She followed all the latest Trends
And so had Loads of Facebook Friends,
But None of them She ever met
Except upon the Internet,
Until one day She said she’d meet
A Boy she found through Chatroom Tweet;
So in High Spirits off She went
But found a Man of Bad Intent
Who Groomed young Girls to get a Date,
She Screamed, but it was Far Too Late.
They found her, later, Far Away,
Abandoned on the Motorway.
Tim Raikes
No. 2616: Self-portrait
‘How pleasant to know Mr Lear…’/ ‘How unpleasant to meet Mr Eliot…’ So begin Edward Lear’s self-portrait in verse, and T.S. Eliot’s response. You are invited to continue either, for a further 15 lines, substituting the name of the poet of your choice, or sticking to the originals if you prefer. Entries to Competition 2616 by midday on 30 September or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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