COMPETITION

Half-rhymes

Jaspistos

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

In Competition No. 1637 you were in- vited to make light-hearted use of half- rhymes in a poem entitled 'The Butcher', `The Lecher' or 'The Future'.

As so often, there were some tremendous beginnings marred by weak finishing. If I had been able to accept 'rose' and 'complexes' as a half-rhyme, Paul Griffin would have been among the win- ners, but his lecherous first stanza deserves quotation:

Come into the garden, Maud; I am here at the gate, alone; I've been reading the works of Freud And wanting to see you soon, For I need your help with some difficult terms That fill me with curious dreams.

Alanna Blake and Laurence Fowler also had strong openings, and Basil Ransom- Davies, Watson Weeks, D. Shepherd, Beverley Strauss and Michael Lee put in

good performances, just short of the money-line. But the cash (£13 apiece) goes to the winners printed below, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky belongs to Chas F. Garvey, whose half-rhymes and scenario were refreshingly unexpected. The winning entries are presented, in terms of subject matter, in reverse order to the competition terms — futures, lechers, then butchers (two of each).

Kerchiefed, beringed, the woman gazed on leaves, A soggy constellation, deep in china.

'I see a tall dark stranger; you he loves, Although by disposition he's a loner.'

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY fill

The seer, olive-skinned, this spiel outpoured, Not for the first time to a desperate spinster. She foresaw not the outcome, as she purred, Would not a knight produce, but a foul monster.

So programmed by such shallow, trashy hope Within a tented haven thus imparted, The palm-with-silver-crossing, willing dupe Her ultimate sad violent fate imported.

Before you this scenario reject, I implore you not to be unduly hasty.

More picaresquely plots were once trade-tricked By murder-mystery queen, Agatha Christie.

(Chas. F. Garvey) Whenever I think of the future I have to recall human nature. It's always the same In hope, joy or gloom, With cock-ups a regular feature.

For every improvement invented, There's always some snag that's confronted, And every small step Brings a large backwards slip. No wonder we're all disenchanted.

But one day, technology humming, Maybe we'll succeed in reclaiming Contentment and peace, Perhaps write some verse That offers perfection in rhyming.

(Katie Mallett) He glances swiftly round the room, A hard man in a hurry, Then like a sudden summer storm He falls upon his quarry.

The wolf is driven by desire, And he can wait no longer; His passive prey is only there To gratify his hunger.

His vanity would hit the mat, If he should reach an impasse; The very notion of defeat Is quite beyond his compass.

Imagine then his stunned surprise At being so unlucky, When she disdains his wolfish ways, And murmurs, 'Piss off, cocky!'

(Roger Woddis) What Maisie mostly hates when she's on hols In posh hotels is misery at meals And how a modest maiden's made to blush When waiters wink and leer and get too fresh. As soon as she is in the dining-room Their eyes immodestly towards her roam And spoil her appetite, no longer starved, With smirks for starters while the soup is served, Raised eyebrows with the next course, and a leer Or wink to follow with more fancy fare. The lewdest looks of all are saved for when Her nightly tipple's poured out, table wine. The tall, the short, the scrawny and the fat As pretty lecherous she sees the lot; And yet since Maisie, bless her, is no beauty, It's mostly wishful thinking, more's the pity.

(Monica G. Ribon) The butcher's no botcher, he kills things with skill; So clever with cleaver, he severs the skull.

He chips and he chops till the joints are all cut — I've a feeling what's over he gives to the cat!

The blood has all bled, so he has a good wash, Shuts up his shop, and — all he could wish With customers many much money amasses. He sups and he sips and then sleeps with his Missis.

I bet yer the butcher don't feel abused 'Cos his living and loving are bloodily based. No scruple (or scrapie) frets him or his mate It's I seem uneasy at eating his meat!

(E. J. Elwin) The butcher's shop is thick with flies, On heaps of reeking offal. The Public Health Inspector flees, He .thinks it's bloody awful.

This public servant has to find A way to stop the butcher, Before an epidemic's fanned By this disgraceful botcher.

So very soon he'll close the shop, To stop the butcher trading.

That's sad because his meat was cheap, Just what the poor were needing.

(John Sweetman )