In Competition No. 2433 you were asked for a poem in which each line’s rhymed ending is a truncated word.
When I’ve a syllable de trop,
I cut it off without apol:
This verbal sacrifice, I know,
May irritate the schol;
But all must praise my devilish cunn
Who realise that Time is Mon.
This verse from ‘Poetical Economy’ suggests that its author, Harry Graham, writing in the 1930s, was the inventor of this game, one which you played with brio.
The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus fiver goes to Alan Millard, whose splendid final rhyme tickled me pink.
I’ve never had a pretty bod
And so I visited the doc’s
And asked him for a body mod
To make me fit the norm, approx.
My genes were handed down from ma
Who, sadly, was no beauty ad,
I’d much prefer to look like pa:
Refined in spite of being trad.
The doc said, ‘I’ll refer you, Ron,
And send you to the fix-it lab!’
I hoped it wasn’t just a con
And even dreamt I’d turn out fab.
The end result was hardly brill
As witnessed by the surgeon’s memo:
‘Couldn’t make him look a mill.
Best not use him as a demo!’
Some might regard as econom
This innovatory phenom
And swear we’d soon become famil
With chopping off that final syll,
But verbalised appendicect
Gives me no feelings of delect
Nor could it help the lexicog
To face destruction of orthog.
The tricky process of versif
Would probably be just as diff –
Curtailment’s not a path Apoll
Encouraged loyal bards to foll.
Who’d rank cacophonous abbrev
Among mankind’s supreme achiev?
I shall react with loud abhorr
If people say, ‘See you tomorr!’
I never was much good at crick:
I only seemed to wield my will
In order to protect my wick;
‘Risk nothing!’ was my batting phil.