COMPETITION

Bizarre books again

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2048 you were given two authentic titles of books of poet- ry — Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! and The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Terrier — and invited to supply verses from either.

The first, an anonymous work published in 1839, has the scarcely believable subtitle, A Poem by One of Job's Comforters. The second, with jacket predictably featuring a winsome Scottie (my least favourite form of dog), was written by Sewell Collins and published by Grant Richards in 1926. Count yourselves lucky I didn't offer you Dentologia: A Poem on the Diseases of the Teeth and Their Proper Remedies by Solyman Brown (pseudonym of Eleazar Parmly), 1840. The Rubaiyats held few surprises, but I was pleasantly astonished by the number of variations you wrung out of the Pooh! theme. All praise to the five accomplished prizewinners printed below, plus the usual £25 each. Special commendations to Andrew Brison and Basil Ransome-Davies. The bonus bottle of The Macallan The Malt Scotch whisky is Bill Greenwell's.

As members of the Garrick Club Our passions heat a kiln, And some of us are moved to blub In praise of A.A. Milne.

With liberal and anarchic cries Our annual feasts are peppered: We equally apostrophise The wit of E.H. Shepherd.

Four times the loyal toast resounds (For details, see the title) When treasurers announce the pounds Our members count as vital.

But as we sip Macallan's Malt In luxury and leather, We also raise a glass to Walt.

Now, gentlemen — together! (Bill Greenwell) Anthropomorphs are apt, God knows, To make one curl from lip to toes; But, if we must have friends in fur, We should demur at ones that purr.

To play the game of vice versa, Let's see ourselves as strains of Ursa: A teddy, say, whose peerless stare Shows how we all need bear despair; Or Rupert seen, when books depict him, As archetypal fashion victim; Even Paddington resists temptation To have ideas above his station.

But Pooh it is, that bear of bears, Who beats all with his modest airs.

Vast fame and tiny brains do mix: Don't ever pooh-pooh Pooh. Pooh sticks.

(W.J. Webster) Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! O happiest of bears: No brain to cause pain, No worries, no cares.

Blue? Who, you, Pooh? You were never the sort To fret, mope, lose hope Or waste time in thought.

You knew too, Pooh, That learning's dangerous; Dim, shy, that's why You stood for all of us Who, through you, Pooh, Are what we are today. You grew too, Pooh, But isn't that the way? (Mike Morrison) Some of their Origins must prate and puff, With talk of Pedigrees, Blood-lines and Stuff - I trot along, my paws close to the ground, And take the Smooth-haired with the Cross-bred rough.

I sometimes think one pleasure rules alone O'er soft caresses, or the frisbee thrown, Or ripe Posteriors in the public Park The haunting Fragrance of a Buried Bone!

Thou who didst dress my coat with brush-strokes slow, And bravely my best Points at Cruft's did show, Trimmed up my nails and scaled my Canine Teeth, And deck'd my Collar with a Tartan Bow, Of the dark Future let me never heed While Thou dost minister unto my Need - With Walkies, while I still can cock a Leg, With Chunky-Meat, until I slip my Lead!

(Alyson Nikiteas) Awake! Arising from her roseate Wells, Dawn bathes my drowsy Basket, and foretells Another Day's Delights, wherein to roam The treasur'd Trackway of a thousand Smells.

You Crufted Popinjays, refin'd and rare, Or you that course the artificial Hare, What Glory can you boast, denied the Chance Such Hearthrug Happiness as mine to share?

In Twilight Dream I turn my shaggy Feet To where, along some Paradisal Street, Unnumber'd Lamp-posts gleam on endless Files Of wondrous Bitches evermore on Heat.

And when my worn Caninity is cast Like whirling Leaves upon the Winter Blast, Where Sirius kindly twinkles, may I be Celestially transdogrified at last!

(Godfrey Bullard)