Spectator Competition: Memorials for monsters

Competition 3346 invited you to write an ‘Epitaph on a Tyrant’. There were fewer Putins than expected but both T Rex and Caligula cropped up more than once. It was a strong field and hard to whittle down but £25 goes to each of the following.

Beast, twelve feet tall and forty long,
Fast, clever and immensely strong,
With eight-inch teeth and fearsome jaws,
The ultimate in carnivores,
He ruled the Mesozoic age,
Exulting in his cruel rage.
But something then occurred to bring
The mighty tyrant lizard king
Down to extinction from his throne;
The cause of death is still unknown.
Of theories there is quite a range:
Disease, volcanoes, climate change,
Or p’raps the earth could not avoid
A rather deadly asteroid.
His legacy’s not what he planned:
Mistaken for a glam rock band.

Nicholas Hodgson

Well, ‘Little Boots’ has clearly made his mark
on history when wearing adult shoes:
the senators were slaughtered for a lark,
their grisly deaths, it seems, would light his fuse.
Declaring war on Neptune – like the sea
his thoughts grew ever more tempestuous.
Was sibling fondness ever meant to be
an orgy, blatantly incestuous?

His horse, his joy, not only was well-shod
but dressed in jewels – a marble stall for hay;
elected consul by the ‘Living God’
who’d license it to vote with ‘yea’ or ‘neigh’.
Assassinated, e’er he did the deed,
the rebels drew their weapons, muscles flexed,
a bloody end, the Roman Empire freed
from tyrant’s rule – that is, until the next…

Sylvia Fairley

The tyrants’ ends are rarely good
And commonly will match their means,
Yet such plain facts, though understood,
Aren’t proof against a tyrant’s genes.
But tyranny is never just
The product of a single will:
Behind the leader’s manic thrust
Supporters pile in for the cause or the thrill.
Some are believers who dance to his beat
And feel there’s a vision that he and they share,
Others, impressed by his skills as a cheat,
Hang on for the ride as long as they dare.
For power is the glory that dazzles clear sight
So people seem blind to what’s done in their name
And blithely enjoy their vicarious might
Till the death of the tyrant puts them in the frame.

W.J. Webster

Eternal Autarch Zubabrubabri, giving lie to his title, is dead. His date of death will be lightly falsified (his date of birth more heavily so), its cause denied before rumoured. Hagiographic generalities will abound, domestic detail expunged. His unforgettable seven-hour speeches to a mute legislature will be sepulchrally quoted, once. Much will be trumpeted of record-breaking harvests under his rule, the perpetually empty granaries of the nation left unreferenced. He will have defeated his enemies to the extent of never having had any. He will be said to have won his 40-year war against pluralism, the remaining 18 months of his reign a paradise of concord enforced by police no longer remotely secret, torturers no longer needing to pretend to careers in butchery. A week of national despair will be declared by a weaselly factotum, during which daggers secretly fly in the uncontested race to become Eternal Autarch Rubabrizabru.

Adrian Fry

Relative perfection was what he was after
So imperfect relatives were fed the mushrooms –
And he was the Nigel Kennedy of his time.
When he played, his music soothed the savage beasts
Who, spellbound, dropped their Christians, for now.

Like Nigel, he was a Villa fan.
He had one in Greece, one in Antium, two in Rome;
He knew the Four Seasons like the back of his hand
And was greatly interested in other toppings.
He walked like a man.

He fiddled and ate while Rome burned.
They say it was no accident.
They say he blamed the Christians.
And now his name is on every high street,
On every blue coffee cup.
How soon we forget our tyrants.

David Silverman

Cruel, pusillanimous,
puling, proud, sadistic;
mad and not magnanimous,
nasty, narcissistic –

these compliments are carved
in cold memorial marble –
‘He left his people halved and starved’,
a legend, do not garble.

My little jests, dear mason,
I’m sure you’ll do me better –
or else I’ll find the time to chasten.
You redden. Touch of tetter?

Chisel to the ready, sweet,
take 40 years, don’t hurry –
I’ll occupy my mercy seat
when you’re forgotten, slurry.

Bill Greenwell

For Kim Jong-Il, perfection was the aim:
For Kim Jong-Il, smooth golfing was the game.
In 1994, aged 52,
He’d never hit a shot, his clubs were new,
But first time that he played, he blew the sport:
Eleven holes-in-one, came the report!
For mortal golfers, holes-in-one are rare,
But not for god-like leaders, debonair
In khaki flares and razored, bouncing hair.
Old Kim a tyrant? Surely you must jest.
When citizens his wonder score assessed,
They knew their leader’s driving was the best.
They questioned not his brilliance, heaven-kissed,
But wondered how on seven holes he’d missed?
‘Sheer modesty and bashfulness,’ said some.
‘With 18 shots, his best is yet to come!’

Nicholas Lee

No. 3349: marking time

‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’. You’re invited to write a poem on this theme but substituting another object (max. 16 lines). Please send entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 May.