In Competition No. 3244, you were invited to submit a poem to mark St George’s Day that rivals in awfulness the one Bono recently penned for St Paddy. As Sam Leith wrote, in a terrifically funny and instructive piece, Bono’s offering was ‘technically incompetent to a degree that constituted an insult to the very craft of verse’. So that was what you were aiming for.
In a large and mischievous entry, there were nods aplenty to the U2 front man, both in content (‘snakes’) and form (limerick). Dishonourable mentions go to Jenny Pearson, R.M. Goddard, Brian Murdoch, Basil Ransome-Davies, Carolyn Beckingham and Roger Rengold. The winners, printed below, pocket £25 each.
Our greatest day, you all have I’m sure heard, Has got to be April the 23rd: ’Cause it’s St George’s Day, I’m telling you; It’s Shakespeare’s – did you know this? – birthday too. Like Boris full was George of chivalry, Like Boris he wanted us to be free; And just as Boris recently was sayin’, We love freedom like people in Ukraine. I’m sure for certain this is George’s wish: Ingerland ought to be for the English, For George was an Englishman born and bred, Who rescued maidens and killed dragons dead. I’ve googled him. Now feel a total berk: Turns out he wasn’t English, but a Turk. At least people agree he did exist: If he had not, off would I have been pissed. Nicholas Hodgson
Let’s raise a cheer for George the saint In Spring (for it’s his season) He protects our land without complaint And for no obvious reason: He’s really a Turk, I’m sure you know, Who joined the Roman army And then was martyred cruelly although I bet he took it calmly. He killed a dragon or so they say (Unlikely to say the least) – A legend added long after his day (There never was such beast.) Inconveniently for the current hour He’s not just England’s patron: He’s Moscow’s too, which leaves me sour, Can someone please fetch matron? Joe Houlihan
St George’s Day! Callooh Callay! Sing! Dance! Express emotion! Oh we all think he’s English – Turns out he’s Cappadocian; And we all think he’s saintly – It’s a patriotic notion. He’s a super-scally, pugilistic, sexy Cappadocian. St George’s Day! Oh frabjous day! He landed at Sheerness And there he met a maiden, A damsel in distress. He slayed the dragon, got the gal And then went to confess: ‘I have faintly saintly, Euphemistic flexible devotion. I’m a super-scally-pugilistic-sexy-Cappadocian.’ David Silverman
’Twas in an English crimson dawn Under a chestnut oak That the Lion of the Brits was born And thus did he lordly spoke, I am He (also she) who is noble Who rules these bluebell lands And whose vision, which is global Though from this grand strand For we shall always come forth Protectionist of the weak South and East, West and North Each day and every week England! Like the fabulous dog Let us have our great day And our mariners, splicing their grog May cry Hip Hip Hooray. Bill Greenwell
Oh St George he conquered the dragon So raise up your tankard or flagon. Be full of good cheer And good English beer And don’t tell me you’re on the wagon. For the dragon we’ve slain now is Brussels After long years of turmoil and tussles, Setting immigrant numbers And straightening cucumbers And generally flexing its muscles. So forget the price hikes at the garage, The bad news that comes in a barrage, For England once more Has a non-porous shore And St George’s name now is Farage. David Shields
St George is the saint for English people which is why his flag flies from every church steeple as well as in decent people’s front gardens where their national pride stiffens and hardens. He must have been an Englishman because he’s great, true saint for the state, a red cross appearing not only his flag but everything from poster to carrier bag. An inspiration for the nation one for celebration and jubilation on his day, which is April 23rd and when people can be proud of being English men (and women too). His killing the dragon proves him a brave hero, like a stag on a mountain top, proud and mighty. A saint for all times, and TRULY knightly. D.A. Prince
No. 3247: The road not taken
You are invited to submit the reflections, in verse or prose, of a well-known writer, living or dead, on a career path they might have taken. Email entries of up to 16 lines/150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 27 April.
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