Lucy Vickery

Spectator competition winners: ‘The Donald – as I call him – is a secret I can’t share’: poems suitable for inclusion in ‘Now We Are Rich’

Spectator competition winners: ‘The Donald – as I call him – is a secret I can’t share’: poems suitable for inclusion in ‘Now We Are Rich’
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For the latest competition you were invited to submit a poem suitable for inclusion in Now We are Rich. There was no obligation to write in the style of A.A. Milne, but most of you did.

I enjoyed Barbara Kirby’s neat take on Milne’s ‘A Thought’ :

If I were Ted and Ted were me,

Then he’d sit here and I’d serve tea.

If Ted were me and I were Ted,

I'd dump it on the bleeder’s head.

There were stellar performances, too, from D.A. Prince, Warren Clements, Max Gutmann, Martin Parker and George Simmers, who were unlucky to go unrewarded. The winners printed below take £30 apiece. Bill Greenwell lands the bonus fiver for his ‘Binker’-inspired entry.

Bill Greenwell

The Donald — as I call him — is a secret I can’t


The Donald is the reason why I have such

      golden hair

Making market killings, stealing from the poor

Whatever cut I’m taking, the Donald tells me,


Oh Murdoch is a stinker and he has a giant wad

And Billy Gates has more inside his bank

      account than God

And Branson is Branson, blond and rather odd

But they can’t touch The Donald

The Donald’s on the dais, with his wallet making


And tells the world to take a running jump or

      else agree

He twinkles like a diamond with his broad

      expensive jaws

And makes more money every time he milks

      them for applause

Oh Buffet is a toughie and he loves his stack of


And Bezos makes a mint each time you’re sent a

      cardboard box

And Soros is Soros, a rare and wily fox

But they can’t touch The Donald

Basil Ransome-Davies

I never was a poor man,

I always had enough

To live in bourgeois comfort

With a decent load of stuff.

But still I only had two cars

And never drank in fancy bars

Or smoked Churchillian cigars.

My style was partly bluff.

Then in neoliberal pastures

The greener grew the grass:

Brass necks and avarice opened doors

Into the moneyed class.

I played the market, beat the odds,

And joined the men who live like gods,

So let the great unwashed, poor sods,

Kiss my expensive arse.

Brian Allgar

They’re stony broke at Buckingham Palace.

Christopher Robin, perplexed, asks Alice:

‘How can it be that the Queen’s on her uppers?’

‘Too many ambassadorial suppers,’ says


‘Well, I thought that the Queen was incredibly rich.’

‘She was, till her bankers came up with a switch,

Diverting her cash to their own bloated pensions

But that is a swindle that nobody mentions,’ says


‘So the bankers are rich, and the rest of us


‘I’m afraid that is true. As I’ve told you before,

It’s the bankers who own the whole country today,

Even though they have frittered our money

      away,’ says Alice.

‘Perhaps I could send her my own pocket


And Pooh could contribute a small jar of


‘That’s kind of you, dear, but it won’t really do

The bankers would greedily gobble it too,’ says


Sylvia Fairley

I’m phishing.

I’m taking funds from your bank account

And crediting mine with the same amount,

Spoof emails are a chance to screw

Your cash from PayPal, eBay too,

But no one knows I’m phishing,

I’ve made a billion —


No one knows I’m scamming,

It’s cyber crime, I pocket my share,

I’m a Silicon Valley billionaire.

If the offer seems ‘too good to be true’

It’s me getting rich, it won’t be you,

I’ll steal your data, spamming,

For I’ve made billions —


J.C.H. Mounsey

Saul Slegg was not a good man —

He played some sneaky tricks

And fellows who’d advanced him sums

Were often in a fix.

Then, at last, one vowed he’d sue

And see the brute in court —

The wealthy Slegg just laughed and said:

‘He must be mad, weak in the head —

Before I pay, he will be dead

For juries can be bought.’

But Saul Slegg was wrong —

He raised jury hackles

And they cheered as they saw him

Go down in shackles.

That’s why, ten years later, against a prison wall

He’s still kicking a big, red india-rubber ball!

Alan Bennett broadcasts his diaries like a literary Mrs Dale but many other authors make sure that theirs are never read, even posthumously. Your next challenge is to submit extracts from diaries that their writers did not wish the world to see. Please email entries (wherever possible) of up to 150 words to by midday on 24