Competition | 21 November 2009

In Competition No. 2622 you were invited to submit a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist, a cyclist on a pedestrian or a pedestrian on either.

Reading the entry brought to mind a question once posed by Matthew Parris: ‘Does cycling turn you into an insolent jerk?’ ‘You bet it does!’ came the semi-unanimous chorus. A bracing stream of vitriol was directed mostly at cyclists, especially those who wear Lycra, though I no doubt let motorists off lightly by not giving the cycling brigade the opportunity to respond in kind to their fellow road-users.

While Brian Murdoch, Basil Ransome-Davies, Paul Griffin and Martin Elster were unlucky losers, this week’s king of the road is D.A. Prince, who nabs the bonus fiver. The other winners, printed below, earn £25 apiece.

May he who rides unlit at night
On pavements in the dark
Ignite into a blazing streak
Of scorching fire and spark;
 
May all his joints be turning,
From head down to his heel,
In cycles of eternal pain  —
Perpetual Catherine Wheel;
 
May he who never troubles
To sound his warning bell
Be maddened, tortured, deafened,
With tinnitus of Hell.
 
And may his barbed wire saddle
Be welded to his soul,
While walkers stoke the fires
With everlasting coal.
D.A. Prince

A curse upon your father, and a curse upon
    your mother,
O you who cannot put a simple foot before
    another,
Who wears a smile as if your mouth contained
    unmelted butter,
And vacuously pads between the pavement and
    the gutter.
May each white plug inside your ear turn into
    wax or foam.
May all your tunes be wiped by magnets on
    your way back home.
When you are old, may you stand rigid, like a
    rusted tripod,
To punish you for wandering while listening to
    your iPod.
And since you stray into my wheels because
    your thumbs are texting,
I offer you a heartfelt uish to add to one great
    exting-.