Spectator competition winners: ‘Toilets’ by T.S. Eliot (anagrammatic poems)

The inspiration for the latest challenge — to rearrange the letters of the names of poets (e.g. Basho: ‘has B.O.’) and submit a poem of that title in the style of the poet concerned — was puzzle writer and editor Francis Heaney’s wonderful Holy Tango of Literature, which includes such delights as William Shakespeare’s ‘Is a sperm like a whale?’, Dorothy Parker’s ‘Dreary Hot Pork’ and William Carlos Williams’s ‘I will alarm Islamic owls’. The anagrammatic titles that caught my eye in a vast and stellar entry included ‘Naughty Nude Wash’ by Wystan Hugh Auden (David Shields) and Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Ode to a Large, Slimy Ulcer’ (Max Gutmann). Hats off, too, to Robert Schechter’s one-line ‘Toilets’ by T.S. Eliot: ‘Let us go then, you and I’. The prizewinners, in what was a hotly contested week, are printed below and snaffle £25 each.

‘Oxen Appareled’ by Alexander Pope/Hugh King A fool might clothe his muddied cows in silk And claim they therefore yielded finer milk, Or give the grunting sow a laundered frock That he through her might breed a purer stock, Or throw upon his ox a velvet cloak To hide the heavy burden of the yoke. Apparel may proclaim the man not least When he would use it to disguise his beast. Such fools as he contrive to win our votes By dressing brutish aims in lustrous coats. They politick and scheme, adorning lies With frills and tassels to distract our eyes. Yet greater fools are they should they believe Their trickery will common sense deceive.

‘A Sly Hot Damn’ by Dylan Thomas/Chris O’Carroll I’ll not go sober to the hall tonight. Dram-dosed and bardic is the role I play. They love my readings when I show up tight.

The boozy adulation I excite Thrives on a ruby sloe gin lurch and sway. Ovations swell when I’m not sober quite.

Roll up, roll up to hear a lush recite Lush dingle-singing lyrics to convey A barley-heightened measure of delight.

With eyes raw red where sober eyes show white, Atwinkle both cherubic and risqué, I am no flesh-denying anchorite.

Whisky’s warm glow fuels readings that ignite Green hill-high thrills and puritan dismay. A toast to tipsy verse-roused appetite!

‘Thank Jose’ by John Keats/David Silverman O what can ail thee, that thou look’st so wan, So haggard and so palely loitering? Forlorn art thou and sorely woe-begone In love with easeful death, no song to sing? Much have I travelled in the realms of goals And many goodly matches have I seen, But now alas — most cursed am I of souls And most in need of blushful Hippocrene. For drowsy numbness now doth plague my sense; Of goalless draws my heart has had its fill, Of every week a ten-men packed defence And every week we’re lucky to score nil. And that is why I sojourn here all day A curséd wretch: for this I thank José.

‘I’m Leery, Jock’ by Joyce Kilmer/Robert Schechter I think that I shall own a pair Of men’s athletic underwear.

A pair whose cotton cup is prest Against my… well, you may have guessed.

A pair to keep my privates safe. A pair that will not itch or chafe.

A pair with which I may pretend My testicles do not descend.

It seems to me I could look hot in This gift of God, supportive cotton.

‘Do Hasty Harm’ by Thomas Hardy/Martin Elster A voice arose among the melting crystals on the boughs — an aged feline that was belting out great sad meows. He had good cause for moaning so, for he could not climb down to the mucky slush and yellow snow that overspread the town.

What was he doing on that tree, not being crow or thrush? He carolled in a sour key. I wanted him to hush. Leaning upon the coppice gate in the weakening eye of day, I aimed my shotgun at him straight and let the pellets spray.

‘Methane Job, NJ’ by John Betjeman/Nick MacKinnon Come bombs and fall on Methane Job! The Mayor is a disgusting slob who sends our taxes to the mob and keeps a whore.

But spare our boys, dear Lord, and grant your blessing on the methane plant and let its smokestacks still enchant the Jersey Shore.

Destroy the evil men who pack the chickens fried in Chicken Shack and make the river Hackensack a chlorine dump.

And cull the gentrifying ranks of traders in investment banks who daily offer up their thanks to Donald Trump.

You are invited to submit a poem entitled ‘Twas the Night before Brexit’. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 9 December. The shorter-than-usual deadline is because of seasonal production schedules.