In Competition No. 2636 you were invited to submit either a victory song or a loser’s lament composed by one who regularly enters this competition.
All in all it was a lively and entertaining entry. And while there were fond references aplenty to the good old days — ‘Bono sub regno Jaspistou I’d gain,/ The occasional cheque for my toil, tears and pain…’ laments Martin Woodhead — when good sense and justice prevailed, the current incumbent stands accused of a litany of crimes, including having a tin ear and no sense of humour.
Bill Greenwell, He Who Almost Always Wins, featured in many entries, as did several other serial winners, but Bill’s victory song narrowly missed the cut. Josephine Boyle and Chris O’Carroll were also unlucky. The winners, printed below, get £25 each. The bonus fiver goes to Basil Ransome-Davies for a masterly portrait of paranoia.
When I didn’t win last week I could tell it was
that clique
Who conspire to keep my winnings lean and low.
They’re the calculating kind who have poisoned
Lucy’s mind.
When I’m left out of the money, how they crow.
They subvert, connive and sneak; it’s their
underhand technique
To dish a comper of the foremost rank.
Oh, I’ve sussed their little games. I’m not naming
any names,
But they’re green with petty envy, to be frank.
People call me paranoid, but I don’t need
Sigmund Freud
To know what’s happening surreptitiously.
Just by joining up the dots I’ve detected all the
plots
To make a chronic loser out of me.
It’s a shock and a disgrace that fellow-poets are
so base,
Descending to skulduggery and crime.
I’m a brave man but it hurts to be robbed of my
deserts —
A top-prize-guaranteed win every time.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Well, I’d just given in, tossed my works in a bin,
when this Wednesday the Speccie proclaimed
one
fifth-best Pastoral Ode to a Bodily Node—
I’m a poet again, an acclaimed one!
I retract all my slurs on those heretofore curs,
since the judge now esteems unsurpassed
rhyme,
on my efforts Miltonic, she’s smiled, solomonic—
she’s so vastly improved since the last time!
Pour the finest cuvee, what a glorious day,
Though I never once doubted I’d do it,
Let the poetasters all sip their wormwood and
gall
As they read it and covet and rue it!
I’m a god, I’m a seer, I’m a bard without peer,
With this win I have vanquished defeat, it
is a palpable joy I’d find quite unalloyed—
if I thought I could ever repeat it.
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