Do your worst

In Competition No. 2797 you were invited to  think of the worst possible title for a poem and then write that poem.
 
Oh, for more space! This challenge brought in a large and excellent entry that fizzed with the spirit of McGonagall and McKittrick Ros.
 
I don’t have space to commend all I’d like to, but take a bow, Chris O’Carroll (‘I taste better than I smell’), Jerome Betts (‘From Verrucaria Maura to Parmelia Saxatilis’), Josh Ekroy (‘Ode on a Teenage Problem Child’), George Simmers (‘The Niceness of Jimmy Savile’), Graham King (‘I floss my nostrils daily’) and Adrian Fry (‘Your Oblong Face’). The winners take £25; W.J. Webster £30.

Rare the taste of moonbeams

Head thrown back and mouth agape,
The silver essence on my tongue,
Hands cupped to form Selene’s shape,
I gave the sleeping world her song.
And as the final plangent note
Flew from my lips’ encircling ‘Ah!’,
There streamed in down my funnelled throat
An argent draught of light lunar.
So sweet it was and yet so pure,
Like liquor from Pierian spring
Collected in a naiad’s ewer
To succour those inspired to sing.
Oh, joy! that I could ever savour
Moonlady’s gentle rain of kisses
Given as pagan wine and wafer —
In thanks for which my votive this is.
W.J. Webster


You can’t make an omelette with fish eggs

You can’t make a sow from a silk purse,
Not even an ear or a snout;
You can’t make a broth worth consuming
If too many cooks are about.
 
The dog that you should have left sleeping,
That mongrel with colic and scabies,
Woke up in a foul-minded temper
And bit you, so now you’ve got rabies.
 
Look hard in the mouth of a gift-horse;
Though some might consider it rude,
The Trojans omitted to do it
And ended up horribly chewed.
 
You can’t mess about with the cosmos;
It’s likely to mess you right back.
And you can’t make an omelette with fish eggs —
Their shells are too tiny to crack.