Spectator competition winners: Red-Lycra-ed Galloway, G

Entries came flooding in following the invitation to submit poems about a politician and an item of clothing. Michael Foot’s donkey jacket; Harold Wilson’s Gannex mac; William Hague’s baseball cap; Hillary’s pantsuit: all featured in what was a cracking entry. I especially enjoyed Fiona Pitt-Kethley opening line on Theresa May’s leathers: ‘Her look’s more S&M than M&S…’ There were strong performances, too, from Jennifer Moore, Anne Woolfe, Albert Black, Tony Reardon, Dorothy Pope and Derek Greenwood. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. The bonus fiver is Chris O’Carroll’s.

Chris O’Carroll She’s a woman for all weather, Legs resplendent in fine leather. Has she flayed some fallen foe and tanned his       hide?

There’s no fashionista like her — Half Posh Spice, half outlaw biker, See her girded for a PM’s jarring ride,

See the wardrobe of a Tory Leader rate a front-page story When leadership’s a female occupation.

Her ensemble is a chic one, Not a cheap, too-shiny sleek one. How her snug look chafes at our imagination!

How the supple calfskin’s glowing! How a niche in history’s growing As every mind’s thigh feels the irritation.

Robert Schechter There once was a glove that you wouldn’t at all have thought could belong to a man who was tall or planned to be building the world’s biggest wall, a man who was famous for hugeness and gall, a man who’d take on any man, ball for ball. So what’s so surprising? The glove size was ‘small’.

Basil Ransome-Davies The oddball they call Bojo has a thing for       underwear, A thing that lifts his spirit like a song. He loves its game of hide and seek, its test of       truth or dare. His preferential item is the thong.

He surfs the saucy ranges, in the closet of his       mind, At Figleaves and Agent Provocateur, Those temples of the vivid, frothy underdressed       behind, Delirious, sans peur et sans pudeur.

In conferences phantoms dazzle Bojo’s every       sense, Of a bottom-fondling wisp in purple lace, Or a silky perineum-flosser, visions so intense They veil the puzzled frown on Merkel’s face.

While diplomatic delegations wrangle, lie and       scheme Over treaties or historic rights and wrongs Our Bojo sits confounded by a hypnotising       dream: The ultimate, Platonic Thong of Thongs.

G.M. Davis When Merkel dons her trouser suit She wears it like a superpower — Resolved, formidable, astute.

She even has the Prussian glower Of Bismarck in his stately prime, This Eurowoman of the Hour.

The suit frees her from space and time. It mends the future and the past. Its sums add up. Its poems rhyme.

It has her enemies outclassed. It makes the algorithms jump. Its savoir-faire is simply vast.

Good fortune to the German frump Who faces Putin, May and Trump.

Frank McDonald He was the change he wished to see, The opulence in poverty; He dressed in rich simplicity And made the world believe him. His loin cloth set his country free, And the great could not deceive him.

Through time’s dark sunshine see him pace; Hope, love and honour light his face. That humble dhoti grants him grace And pleads for man’s equality. Among our saints he takes his place And walks in immortality.

D.A. Prince Sometimes this nightmare surfaces: Big Brother (Celebrity), that scarlet too-tight leotard as worn by Galloway, G.

What politicians sink to for crude publicity! Sartorially this is the pits, faux-feline Galloway, G.

Indelibly on YouTube for perpetuity: blood-red and scoop-necked, overstretched, enrobing Galloway, G.

I’m sorry to revive for you this dreadful memory. Now you, too, will be haunted by red-lycra-ed Galloway, G.

Your next challenge is to supply a protest song for Donald Trump’s detractors. Please email entries, wherever possible, of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 1 February.