In Competition No. 2750 you were invited to submit a poem in praise of one of the deadly sins. The challenge was prompted by the following surprising admission by Taki in a High Life column earlier this year: ‘Lust, gluttony, pride, wrath and sloth I am rather proud to be guilty of, especially the first and the last.’ Though lust didn’t get much of a look-in in the entry, you were with Taki on sloth, which, along with gluttony, produced all six winners. Marion Shore and John O’Byrne were on pithy, witty form; commendations also go to Barbara Wilcock Bland, Janet Kenny, Carolyn Thomas-Coxhead and Derek Robinson. The winners get £25 each. Bill Greenwell nabs £30.
A swallow or two doesn’t signify summer,
But a third expands waistlines, allows one to taste
What the poor can’t afford. The paupers are
glummer:
But someone must wallow. The sin is effaced.
Eating and drinking need nous, call for gumption —
A talent for toasting where others may tipple,
Commitment to permanent over-consumption,
Making rollicking waves, not a nebulous ripple.
The larder is open. The shelving is groaning,
The meat moist and fresh, and the wine full of
flavour:
Misers may shudder, and, slack-jawed, stand
moaning.
But do me a favour, the world is to savour —
St Thomas Aquinas was dour about diners,
Though thin as a thread for a miniature button.
But busting my gut is a plus, not a minus:
All praise to the passion, the art of the glutton.
Bill Greenwell
I readily confess that I’m a glutton;
For me, a morning snack’s a leg of mutton.
(Oh, bloody hell! There goes another button.)
There’s no one more devotedly Tex-Mexier,
And while it’s true that thin’s considered sexier,
At least I’ll never die from anorexia.
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