In Competition No. 2952 you were invited to submit nonsense verse of up to 16 lines on the subject of the EU referendum. So, as if you hadn’t had quite enough nonsense for one referendum — on stilts or otherwise — here’s another helping; though hopefully one that will make you smile rather than snarl. The winners pocket £25 apiece and Bill Greenwell snaffles £30.
When mithimade is allbijove
Beneath a grayling moon
Then hoey is the borigove
And wethers are in spoon
When dunkum smit is gallowade
Between the moggs and rees
Ah join the giselous parade
That bothams up the crease
How priti are the villiers
Out whitting in the dales!
How teehee utlier the furze
And dahlia the mails!
Now tebbitly the daltreys sound
To icke a trimble margin
Now pole the deling kippers round
That all may be faragin
’Twas brexit and the merkyl foes
Did corbinate ’gainst lyb and labe.
All quipsy were the borisgoves
And the eukalips outgrabe.
He took his spressie sword in hand;
Longtime with brussel brouts he fought;
On refugees by the kalaytrees
He snirked in puffish plot.
And hast though slain the Kamberon?
O brexit joy, O gabrous gains!
For now we’ll close the chunni gate
And screep the euric chains.
’Twas brexit and the merkyl moaned
In tadish tant and uffish shout,
And while the Osbo grieved his loss
The flabrous brits danced out.
Inners and outers;
Mirrors and smokery,
Shouters and doubters.
Fudgers and riggers.
Texters and posters;
Shysters and showsters.
Dingers and dongers;
Oh so light-weightery
Pingers and pongers.
The Eeyore reefer-rending woes
are multiplicious: neither toes
nor fingers will suffice to clot
this tarradiddliwobbly plot.
What rancid govishness, what bosh
of boorish doodle-dribbled tosh
can madify this horrifee
beyond the shores of Parody?
But Eeyorins are muffly too,
not compomens (like me, like you)
and not the sortlish commeel types
we’d want as chattipalli types.
We haver, luffish, feary-brink,
a blobblish floteabit or sink;
no votely folk would think to bless
the Prome who uprearraised this mess.
Said the Loris to the Bhorris: ‘Shall we dance a manic Morris
As we vote Remain in Britain’s referendum?’
‘No!’ the Bhorris told the Loris.