No. 1364: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem using only one rhyme.

Thank you for a tremendous and amus- ing response, and thanks, Gerard Benson, for telling me about Dr Fitzgerald's classic unirhyme about the poet 'in sad quandary/ To find a rhyme for Tipperary', which is nearly 100 lines long (about a quarter of the lines end in 'Tipperary' but the rest are all different) and which ends: 'He paced about his aviary,/Blew up sky-high his secretary,/And then in wrath and anger sware he/There was no rhyme for Tip- perary.'

J. K. Grant was in bitter mood: 'At last a rhyme scheme that's ideal/To show exactly what I feel/When week by week (unreal! unreal!)/Jaspistos and his friends reveal/ That fortune's never-turning wheel/Has once more brought on top that heel/ B. Ransome-Davies, or the eel/N. Petty . . .' but he was a poor prophet — the Heel and the Eel both just missed the jackpot, as did Peter Alexander, Charles Mosley, Jean Hayes, I. C. Snell, John Sweetman, 0. Smith and E. L. Bellwringle. Prizes of £10 each go to the winners below and the

bonus bottle of Vosne Roman& Les Beauxmonts 1980, presented by the Chelsea Arts Club, will be drunk by Peter Norman.

We freeze. Officiously he blows his nose.

He knows we're here! We hear the shed door close, The rattling clank of forks and spades and hoes. Then, sure enough, above the rambling rose His balding pate appears. 'I don't suppose You'd like a drop of home-made plonk?' He goes Away, but swiftly reappears and shows With pride a demijohn of sludge. 'The sloes Produce the hue, . .' (enthusiasm flows) . . The parsnips give it strength. You'll find it grows On you.' One can't refuse. He thinks he owes Us favours — every week he gaily mows

Our strip of verge. He seems to think we chose

To live next door, just so he could disclose To us his trivial delights and woes!

We grit our teeth, gaze glumly at our toes. . .

(Peter Norman) He tried to take away their right to earn their daily bread,

'Co-ordinated' flying pickets got the go-ahead, And NUM democracy gave way to fear and dread—

Why bother with a ballot, when a brick would do instead?

'We're going to smash this Guvverment!' is what the Great Man said, And noted with contentment that disorder was widespread.

A football hooligan who joined the fray was picked up dead.

What irony of fortune that a picket's blood was shed!

The propaganda slogans were rehearsed from A to Z, As sequestrators strove to put the Union in the red; The future of the industry was hanging by a thread, While leaders of the Church rushed in where angels feared to tread.

For more than fifty weary weeks communities had bled, And hard-pressed strikers wondered how their children would be fed.

At last it was the men themselves who put the strike to bed When all of them could see where Scargill's leadership had led.

(J. D. Tunnicliffe) When I consider how my cash is spent, On income tax and fares and VAT and rent And rates (regrettably I live in Brent), I wish I was a well-heeled city gent In banking, diamonds, coffee or cement.

I'd buy a weekend castle down in Kent, And holiday in Rio or Tashkent (Instead of with my Mum in Stoke-on-Trent), Or near Great Yarmouth in a sodding tent); And though the grandest places I'd frequent, My pocket-book would manifest no dent.

So once again I'm down to my last cent.

I've borrowed stacks from Mum, but where it went - God knows. And now it's truly my intent To give up scrounging — well, at least for Lent.

(Ron Rubin) Inside the shaded mosque a soft breeze sighs. The man (who beats his wife and cheats and lies) Can talk with God, Whose laws his life denies. For, smoothed and comforted, his soul relies On his God's promise that at his demise Houris will welcome him to Paradise.

Outside, in dust and noise 'neath blazing skies, His ass waits patiently, besieged by flies; Suffering he lives and works and works and dies. This ass has never sinned or lied, his eyes Are guiltless, yet nor God nor man supplies For him a hope of some green Paradise.

(Jane Webb) The Chief Defect of Charlie Hill Was having too much Time to kill. He spent his Days in sitting still And staring at the Daffodil That wilted on his Window-sill.

It wasn't that he'd lost the Will Or lacked the necessary Skill; But ever since they closed the Mill. His chances of a Job were Nil. Rejection was a Bitter Pill; Each morning brought another Bill, Not only that, he grew quite ill From all the Forms he had to fill.

He stuck it out for years, until One Winter, when the air was chill, He emigrated to Brazil. (Roger Woddis)