My request for poems by a pet who is cheesed off with its owner generated an entertaining parade of bullied, misunderstood and condescended-to creatures. The contempt in Basil Ransome-Davies’s closing couplet, written from the perspective of a bolshie moggy, speaks for the majority:
He wants affection, he can kiss a duck.
It’s what my mother told me: bipeds suck.
I especially liked Sylvia Fairley’s homicidal preying mantis and Bill Greenwell’s scheming goldfish. Equally impressive, and unlucky to be just out of the frame, were Hugh King, John Priestland, George Tetley, John-Paul Marney and Dave East. Those entries printed below earn their authors £25 apiece. This week’s top dog is Martin Parker. He gets £30.
Martin Parker
I’m a goldfish who’s dejected
that my habitat’s infected
and is neither fit to swim in nor to drink.
And I think my owner oughta
come and change my stagnant water
which is so full of detritus
that I’m blinded and I might as
well be swimming round in pea soup or in ink.
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