Basil Ransome-Davies All poets lie, Pascal implied; But that’s their very game. Chaucer was one who lied and lied, Dryden much the same.
Eliot wouldn’t know the truth From Ezra Pound’s backside. Gray went to Eton in his youth; He eloquently lied.
If Wild Walt Whitman’s big I Am Just takes you for a ride, Kid, never mind. It’s all a scam. Like Tennyson, he lied.
Milton told tales, but for which side? Nobody seems to know it. O bards, what guilty truths you hide. Praise god, I’m not a poet.
Frank McDonald Alfred Lord Tennyson gave us a benison: Bedivere tending to Arthur his king. Coleridge managed to write about Xanadu, Domes full of pleasure and Alph’s sacred spring. Edward Fitzgerald was Omar’s great herald, Fashioning fingers that wrote and moved on. Gray got his elegy in every anthology, Holding a candle for those that have gone. In Shakespeare the sonnet had honour heaped on it, Just like his plays that were better than best. Keats gave us odes in which poetry explodes, Letting him live though he’s long gone to rest. Milton was blind and was one of a kind, Nearing his maker in ‘Paradise Lost’. Others there are who were destined to star, Poets of perfection, a heavenly host.
Susan McLean Arsily-versily, Benedict Cumberbatch curses his eminence, dazed and beguiled.
Extracurricular forays in nudity garner him stardom in Hamlet Gone Wild.
Innegan-finnegan, Jennifer Aniston knows what it’s like to be left in the shit.
Monomaniacal newsmongers slaver for off-colour titbits on pretty-boy Pitt.
Max Ross All the world’s a stage, as Shakespeare wrote, But few of us have roles of any note; Casts come and go, repeating what’s been said, Doing the same old parts others have played. Every so often someone rises tall Filling the stage to overshadow all, Giving a great performance and displaying How transience can find a way of staying. Illustrious victors live beyond their day Joining the stars in some mysterious way; Kings are recalled to play their role once more Living their reign in history’s copious store. Masters of words receive a further part Nudged out of death’s oblivion by their art. Only the great re-enter time’s domain; People like us don’t get to live again.
Hugh King African elephants hate apple crumble. Badgers spurn toad in the hole. Cheese disagrees with all bees but the bumble. Doughnuts spell death to the vole. Egypt’s Nile crocodile eats gluten free, Fussing when choosing its dish, Getting upset if the omega 3 Has low concentrations in fish. In Mali the hedgehog is rarely observed. Japan is devoid of the skunk. Kangaroos’ reputation for spite is deserved. Lemurs laugh coarsely when drunk. My scholarly knowledge of facts such as these, Notwithstanding the burden it brings, Offers hope of a fellowship — possibly Caius, Peterhouse, Pembroke or King’s.
W.J. Webster A toupee, bought to hide a patch, Blending well in natural light, Changed to a shade that didn’t match, Discernibly, alas, at night. Enticing, then, to try instead Full fig, as women freely can, Going blonde or dark or red, However suits their fashion plan. It’s not that easy, though, for men, Judged by where the nape fringe goes: Knowing glances now and then Look at where it never grows. Mercifully — God knows why — New growth sprang up: no need for weaves Or transplant schemes that go awry — Palliatives for a loss that grieves.
Break-ups are very much on the agenda at the moment. Your next challenge is to submit a Dear John letter, in prose or verse, in the style of a well-known author (please specify). Please email (wherever possible) entries of up to 16 lines or 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 5 April.
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