110 533211P 4 12 YEAR OLD z_ SCOTCH WHISKY COMPETITION

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Anagrammatic

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1622 you were in- vited to write a poem in which each line contains words which are anagrams of each other.

Anagrammatic skill — a magic art, man! as Sam N. Bhutto aptly put it. This was one for the pros, or the nuts, whichever way You look at it. Some of you accused me of driving you out of your minds, but you have to be mad to start with to handle this sort of assignment. The following people of unsound mind won my admiration: Will Rellenger, Liz Conway, Monica G. Ribon, Richard Watts (madly ingenious), Noel Petty CI violate an apple, rape a pear'), and D. A. Prince (who neatly juxtaposed our old friends orchestra and carthorse). Having tried to balance the claims of ingenuity, plausibility and poetic skill, I am left with five fabulous winners, printed below, who get £15 each, and a virtuoso taker of the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky David Tompsett.

`We're brigandless,' upon the dais Lanclsbergis proudly said, 'From Klaipeda the highwayman and pad alike have fled; But some who're dockable remain — they'd make the blockade true: Would pals of Mikhail Gorbachev have him block Riga too? Old Olga, valiant Latvian, is languishing in gaol

'We'll soon have you fit enough to go to hospital.'

In Moscow, over lunatic attempt to countervail! At Parnu, brave Estonians ran up their flag sensation! —

They'll face some interrogatives for such tergiv- ersation!

Like Premier Prunskiene the knee 1 spurn to bend - But, Lithuanians, alas I hunt in vain for friend!'

To blast the Russian fief from Baits, a dairyman in Fife, Macreery, sold his creamery and set off with his wife (Nee Cathy Reith) in 'Thistle' — she's their yacht — and Lettish crew, With fine ideals the ocean sailed past many a canoe.

They landed in Kaliningrad — Mac drinking a la Scot: His host who was a Russian saw his drift and had him shot.

(David Tompsett) With you I dared the high peaks and scorned to speak of dread, With a stomach stored with feathers as my rash feet strode ahead.

For you the tops were sacred; could I stop if I was scared? If I'd rest, you'd briskly stride on, beard un- kempt and torso bared.

'We've got there, both together!' As you'd grin, your voice would ring.

On a rock you'd leave me standing, where birds croak, flies bite and sting, Winds blow and bowl one over, like a bather out of breath When a bore sets up the Severn and upsets one's nerves to death.

Then I couldn't bear the bare truth: 'Mate, we'll never make a team.'

And shame has me confessing I lied for an idle dream.

Now all I am desiring is a ring-side seat with teas Or ales for sale, where I might fall asleep just when I please, Or eat a cream tea and set out with camera for snaps (No danger here) of garden views and wives of climbing chaps.

To dare the Fates with flashy feats, my dear, just leaves me numb; There's as much real fun in a funeral as there is in climbing, chum.

(0. Smith)

Apprentice Spring with petals plates the trees, And birds incorporate in procreation Bright gems of notes of love, the raucous tones Of fighting talk now taking flight, elation Goes for a spin, each song of praise a strand Of pearls. Now bees brush every shrub and flower, Well versed in nature's habits, and, well served, With subtle bustle pass a shining hour.

But tapestries of blooms do a strip tease As Summer comes and grips each sprig and spray, And feather-breasted air debaters lose Their song, and, hot, resign their morning play. The sun now auctions off, with suffocation, Each cooling breeze; the days begin to ache; Epwtionless the year loses no time In growing old, world going in its wake.

(Katie Mallett) Impressively I lisp my verse As I pen my poem, Pope is my name, Alexander Pope, near-apoplexed I ache for lame, heroical fame.

I echo Pindar's pain-rich odes, Metric slavery is my clever art, I'm heaven's lord, and Homer lives In me, and Homer is so hard To frame in style; tense formality Is Pope's delight, deep plots I sigh, And, against dunces, genius cast; I show no pity! Poison it? Why?

No! Some pigs pay so Pope may sing Hymns serenading sense and rhyming.

(Frank McDonald)

Evensong was atonal last night. An alto Singer threatened to resign. The choir joined his demo And vowed they'd all sit in. 'Bring back Tallis and Byrd,' Each choirman chanted. 'Harmonic settings will be heard.'

The leading treble (an ace at dealing with the Dean) Brought their demand; said they'd be damned if they'd demean Their vocal chords to send such vile and evil cries Heavenward. They have warned the Dean that 'twould be wise That Harmony be restored, or desert they will. For might not the Lord Himself despair when praised so ill?

(Jeanne Fielder)