For Competition 3420 you were invited to submit a poem or short story incorporating that sentence of Emerson’s: ‘The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.’ Dr Johnson may have been the first to mention spoon counting, saying (according to Boswell) that ‘if he does really think that there is no distinction between virtue and vice, why, Sir, when he leaves our houses, let us count our spoons’. In a large and very good entry, in which poetry prevailed, Alex Steelsmith, J.C.H. Mounsey, Tracy Davidson, Frank McDonald, Brian Murdoch, Adrian Fry, Sylvia Fairley and a few others missed out by a whisker. Those below win the £25 vouchers.
The louder he talked of his honor,
The faster we counted our spoons,
For fear the Crown Jewels were a goner,
Along with the royal spittoons.We checked every glass, every chalice,
Every cup, every bowl, every plate;
The tiara was switched at the Palace
When we found he’d be sat next to Kate.He gabbed and he bragged of the Art of the Deal,
And he bored the poor pants off the King,
And we scanned and we frisked him right after the meal
In case he’d made off with the bling.But the Special Relationship’s still going strong,
Because this MAGA blagger’s a charmer;
He’s a true man of honor, so what could go wrong
If he says he’s best mates with Keir Starmer?David Silverman
To prepare for the cutlery wars
We learned to wield silverware well,
We marshalled all spoons to our cause
And ground our knives sharper than hell –
Then with forks launched a three-pronged attack.
We rashly marched in for the kill,
But our enemies, too, had the knack:
They could slash, prick and scoop with great skill,
And were equally willing and able.
The white napkins of parley were waved,
And our generals brought truce to the table.
For decades both sides have behaved,
Then our leader, a braggart and conner,
Called our enemies clowns and buffoons.
The louder he talked of his honour,
The faster we counted our spoons.Matt Quinn
The louder he talked of his honor,
the faster we counted our spoons.
He won’t get invited to dinner again
if we fear he’ll abscond with the jewels.Should we be searching his pockets?
Or look at his trousers askance?
Is the butter knife tucked in his sock, do you think,
or the candlestick stuck down his pants?Perhaps he’s just socially clumsy
to boast of himself with such pride,
and could it be Great Uncle Humphrey, instead,
who has something silver to hide?
Oh, he may be an honest young blighter
and would never make off with the plate.
But he won’t get invited to dinner again –
he was loud and obnoxious and late.Helen Baty
When Nessie brought home her Nathaniel,
We thought: ‘Well at last! Here’s a winner!’
He fished and he stalked, he knew which knives and forks
To deploy when consuming his dinner;
He touched on his cavalry service,
And his hedge fund secured in Mauritius…
Until the Old Bill cast a wintry chill,
We thought Nessie’s Nat most propitious.Although saddened to hear of his Ponzis,
And the silver half-inched from dragoons –
The louder he talked of his honour,
The faster we counted our spoons –
We reflected on Nessie’s allurements,
As her wails made the Castle a hell;
So we published the bans, we rallied the clans,
And we threw in the Landseer as well.Nick Syrett
The louder he talked of his honour
the faster we counted our spoons,
like a priest totting up the Commandments
or Jupiter tallying his moons.The more he announced himself honest
the quicker we fact-checked each word,
like a linesman on edge at a match point
or a tom-cat intent on a bird.When he came out with Latin quotations
we reached for the garlic and cross,
like the hero confronting a vampire
or a dentist instructing on floss.But when he claimed he was the answer
we pointed the finger of shame;
like a team fighting off relegation
we united in one common aim.D.A. Prince
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat planned to wed,And Owl asked our firm for a quote,
He bought fine honey, flashed plenty of money,
But passed us a counterfeit note,
He called himself honest as the stars above,
With his yacht and his cool guitar,
Picked a nine-carat ring from a piggy-wig’s bling,
Filled runcibles with caviar,
He ordered rich mince, and expensive spiced quince,
In the manner of posh tycoons,
I swear the louder he talked of his honour,
The faster we counted our spoons,
When we called his bank the bird flounced off,
And the pair did a moonlight flit,
So don’t trust Owl, that inelegant fowl,
He’s a fraudulent, feathery git.Janine Beacham
No. 3423: bad advice
You are invited to submit a passage (150 words maximum) about a command or suggestion from literature (e.g. ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’) being taken too literally. Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 22 October.
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