COMPETITION

Rights of passage

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1599 you were in- vited to write a poem commenting on the proposal to erect wrought iron gates and railings at one end of Downing Street.

It was bad luck on those of you who cracked jokes whose point depended on Nigel Lawson being at Number Eleven. Couldn't he have waited for the competi- tion to run its course before resigning? A selfish bunch, politicians. Whenever I set a competition with a political flavour, un- familiar entrants come swarming out of the woodwork, buzzing angrily but not always stinging effectively. This week's rhyme was inevitably 'trolley' and 'folly'. A more unexpected one came from Professor Ashley of Brooklyn College, New York:

One thing is sure re Mrs Thatcher: Whatever you do, she will get atcher.

Nice work was handed in by George Moor, Katie Mallett, Watson Weeks, Caroline White, Ba Miller and Robert Baird. The prizewinners printed below, this week very various, get £14 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Cognac Otard VSOP, kindly presented by the Chateau de Cog- nac, goes to Norman Power, who made it look easy, which it never is.

In Downing Street, in ages gone, The people ambled daily;

It didn't worry Wellington Or disconcert Disraeli.

But gates for Downing Street are planned, The contracts are agreed (A sad idea in freedom's land And one we do not need).

Contracts mean money for the task, And where the extras go Is really not for me to ask And not for you to know.

`No GATES,' the right-of-way folk shout, But gates were less a sin If, while they kept the public out, They kept some people in. (Norman Power) 'Twas our last leader ordered railings here, Together with this iron gate. I fear They are an eyesore now. Deft artisans Worked busily a month, although her plans Betrayed, some felt, a monstrous lack of taste. A coat of arms or scroll might well have graced This barricade, where now you see instead Impaled upon the central spike the head Of Arthur Scargill. Mark how Edward Heath Bestows a stony glare on those beneath. That, sir, is Galtieri's head, the first Thus mounted. When she gave command, none durst

Demur. She was — how shall I say? — inclined To be self-willed. Her rigid cast of mind Is held to be the cause of her defeat.

Will't please you, sir, walk further down the street? (Keith Norman) The fatal flaw of Mrs T Was that she couldn't bear to be Upstaged. She felt a bitter malice Towards that woman at the Palace Who, thanks to family connections, Was not obliged to fight elections.

Thus, suffering from grand delusions And morbid terror of intrusions, She had some massive railings built With lots of filigree and gilt.

`The public will approve,' said she.

`Their unassailability Will powerfully symbolise Our iron will.' Contrariwise, Alas, the fickle public thought Them, like their maker, overwrought. (Peter Norman) Proud Maggie sits wi' her Ministers And her word is thus and thus: `Now listen hard, ye bags o' lard, Ye owe your jobs tae us.

`Yon Geoffrey's whacked, and Nigel's sacked, And we're a grandma noo, So henceforth ye shall call us Ma'am (When ye are spoken to).

`And sich as choose to doubt our views Must werrit us nae more, So we'll ha' railings doon our street Wi bonny spikes an' a'.' Aye,' murmurs one. 'Ochon! Ochon! We'll soon ha' need o' these. The pipes o' Clan McHeseltine Are skirlin' in the breeze.' (Michael Lee)

Must scowling Railings veil the lustrous Street, Wherein adoring throngs were wont to greet Great Margaret, whom all the Pundits watch, As she no counsel takes — but sometimes

Scotch?

Has her high pomp now swelled to such estate That she must be secluded by a Gate From those who, as they seek the glance divine, Like fervid bees besiege her busy shrine? Well-wrought these Pales, but yet ill-wrought as well: For annals oft of lofty tyrants tell,

In whose brave camp Fortuna long did dwell, But who, at last, through vaulting Hubris fell. No spell's forever: Time at last bereaves Each fell Enchantress of the art she weaves. Nor beetling Gates, nor miles of haughty Rails Can save her when her strong enchantment fails.

(Martin Fagg) There's a wholesome grey about the day As we look from Number Ten, And the policeman's there but the streets are bare And the plebs are in their den. It was such good sense to build a fence To stop the buggers prying, For though we're proud of our common crowd We're sensitive to spying. If the lesser queen can rule serene

Cut off from hoi polloi,

A simple fence is a recompense To give a grandma joy. Secure at last, we can sack the cast (To hell with reasons why), And we'll rule alone without a throne, Just God and I. (Frank McDonald)