Spectator competition winners: jokes in verse form

In Competition No. 3184 you were invited to tell a joke in verse form. This challenge, suggested by a reader and coming at a time when we could all do with a laugh, drew a large and jolly entry. As space is short, I pause only to salute stellar performances all around before handing over to the winners, who snaffle £25.

The barman had seen many people walk into his bar,He’d met with folk of all persuasions, nations near and far.They’d ordered every type of drink, they’d ordered them with puns,he’d seen celebrities walk in, as well as ghosts and nuns.But never had he seen a pair stroll in just like these two;Helvetica and Times New Roman, print in letters true.They strolled up arm-in-arm and asked the barman for a drink.‘A gin martini, my good man, and stout as black as ink.’The bar fell grimly silent like a Western with John Wayne,before the cowboys throw down cards, and guns and whisky reign.The letters gazed about them, not suspecting any trouble,not guessing they were on the rocks, this most unlucky double.The barman didn’t want a scene, but drew a warning breath,he leaned across the counter and his eyes were cold as death.He stared them down, a warning hand upon the tap of beer;‘You’re going to have to leave now. We don’t serve your type in here.’ Janine Beacham

Farmer Giles has a suck on a straw, And whistles his collie to heel, Says, Sun won’t be up for much more, And it’s time for our evening meal.  Go down to the field by the fold, And hustle my sheep to their pen. Make sure that you do as you’re told, And count them once over again. The dog nips away where they graze, And is back in two shakes with a grin. He says, as if hoping for praise, All forty, they’re all gathered in. Wait