Lucy Vickery

Fashion statement

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In Competition No. 2981 you were invited to submit a poem about a politician and an item of clothing.

Michael Foot’s donkey jacket; Harold Wilson’s Gannex mac; William Hague’s baseball cap; Hillary’s pantsuit: all featured in what was a cracking entry. I especially enjoyed Fiona Pitt-Kethley opening line on Theresa May’s leathers: ‘Her look’s more S&M than M&S…’ There were strong performances, too, from Jennifer Moore, Anne Woolfe, Albert Black, Tony Reardon, Dorothy Pope and Derek Greenwood.

The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. The bonus fiver is Chris O’Carroll’s.

She’s a woman for all weather,

Legs resplendent in fine leather.

Has she flayed some fallen foe and tanned his hide?

There’s no fashionista like her —

Half Posh Spice, half outlaw biker,

See her girded for a PM’s jarring ride.

See the wardrobe of a Tory

Leader rate a front-page story

When leadership’s a female occupation.

Her ensemble is a chic one,

Not a cheap, too-shiny sleek one.

How her snug look chafes at our imagination!

How the supple calfskin’s glowing!

How a niche in history’s growing

As every mind’s thigh feels the irritation.

Chris O’Carroll

There once was a glove

that you wouldn’t at all

have thought could belong

to a man who was tall

or planned to be building

the world’s biggest wall,

a man who was famous

for hugeness and gall,

a man who’d take on

any man, ball for ball.

So what’s so surprising?

The glove size was ‘small’.

Robert Schechter

The oddball they call Bojo has a thing for

underwear,

A thing that lifts his spirit like a song.

He loves its game of hide and seek, its test of truth or dare.

His preferential item is the thong.

He surfs the saucy ranges, in the closet of his mind,

At Figleaves and Agent Provocateur,

Those temples of the vivid, frothy underdressed behind,

Delirious, sans peur et sans pudeur.

In conferences phantoms dazzle Bojo’s every sense,

Of a bottom-fondling wisp in purple lace,

Or a silky perineum-flosser, visions so intense

They veil the puzzled frown on Merkel’s face.

While diplomatic delegations wrangle, lie and scheme

Over treaties or historic rights and wrongs

Our Bojo sits confounded by a hypnotising dream:

The ultimate, Platonic Thong of Thongs.

Basil Ransome-Davies

When Merkel dons her trouser suit

She wears it like a superpower —

Resolved, formidable, astute.

She even has the Prussian glower

Of Bismarck in his stately prime,

This Eurowoman of the Hour.

The suit frees her from space and time.

It mends the future and the past.

Its sums add up. Its poems rhyme.

It has her enemies outclassed.

It makes the algorithms jump.

Its savoir-faire is simply vast.

Good fortune to the German frump

Who faces Putin, May and Trump.

G.M. Davis

He was the change he wished to see,

The opulence in poverty;

He dressed in rich simplicity

And made the world believe him.

His loincloth set his country free,

And the great could not deceive him.

Through time’s dark sunshine see him pace;

Hope, love and honour light his face.

That humble dhoti grants him grace

And pleads for man’s equality.

Among our saints he takes his place

And walks in immortality.

Frank McDonald

Sometimes this nightmare surfaces:

Big Brother (Celebrity),

that scarlet too-tight leotard

as worn by Galloway, G.

What politicians sink to

for crude publicity!

Sartorially this is the pits,

faux-feline Galloway, G.

Indelibly on YouTube

for perpetuity:

blood-red and scoop-necked, overstretched,

enrobing Galloway, G.

I’m sorry to revive for you

this dreadful memory.

Now you, too, will be haunted by

red-lycra-ed Galloway, G.

D.A. Prince

No. 2984: hey mr tangerine man

You are invited to supply a protest song for Donald Trump’s detractors. Please email entries, wherever possible, of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 1 February.