In Competition No. 2869 you were invited to submit a poem on any theme as it might have been written by the diminutive, myopic warden of New College, Oxford Revd W.A. Spooner, whose gift for mangling words bequeathed us such comic gems as ‘The Lord is a shoving leopard’.
Not everyone was laughing, though. ‘Am I the only one who finds this exercise extraordinarily difficult?’ wailed Brian Murdoch. He’s got a point. Judging the entries was a brain-addling process, so goodness knows what torture it must have been to write them. The winners take a well deserved £25 each. Sylvia Fairley snaffles £30.
Send my abandoned tart to hell
In flames, my fuel crate;
The witch I’m bedding sent a note,
A catalogue of hate.
What balm can ever tease my ears?
(I need to know my blows…)
She says she’ll book my calls for tea,
I’d rather lose my toes.
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