COMPETITION I n Competition No. 1419 you were in- vited to

supply a poem such as A. E. Housman might have written had his favourite scene been not Shropshire, but modern suburbia or the inner cities.

Toxteth and Tottenham, Brixton and Brum, Are of slummiest places The veriest scum was Graham Dunstan's opening verse, a rather unfortunate one considering that Birmingham is the home of the President of the Housman Society, who has kindly offered to print this week's winning entries in the Society's journal.

Housman himself thought the best parody of himself ever written was Hugh Kingsmill's (see, among other places, p.85 of Richard Ingrams's God's Apology). None of you rose to that height, and a few of you merely imitated the spirit of the poet without getting close to his manner. There was a disappointing lack of diversity in metre, for after all Housman was quite various in that department. D. A. Prince had a nice yobbo's line: 'Pass me the can, Sid; here's a wall to spray', and Philip Nicholson, the best of the runners-up, began delightfully:

An Urban Lad

Jaspistos

I would be quit of Ludlow, Of Wenlock, Clee, and Teme. Sick I am with yearning For the grassless hills of Cheam.

The winners printed below get £8 each, and the bonus bottle of KWV Riesling 1983 goes to V. M. Cornford.

Now Spring is on the Mersey And I am sixteen plus,

I don my Oxfam jersey,

And board the grimy bus.

I speed towards the Labour That looms up dark and grey, To stand beside my neighbour And queue for half the day.

The winds that blow so bitter Make not so deep a bruise As forms reduced to litter, And failing interviews.

The blighted blossoms shiver, The winds, they blow so keen. Now Autumn's on the River

And I am seventeen. (v. M. cornord)

Loveliest of streets, the High Street now Is hung with many a festive bough; And people come from far and wide To search for gifts at Christmastide.

Now, of my three score pounds and ten Forty goes on rent again; Take from seventy pounds two score, That only leaves me thirty more.

And since for toys and other stuff Thirty quid is not enough, I might as well just quit my quest, Pop in the pub, and blow the rest. (David Cr In summertime in Brixton The fires they burn so bright, On all the looted booze shops They cast an eerie light, A satisfying sight.

Here of a balmy evening This bird and me would slope To wait for the excitement And have a little grope, And maybe shoot some dope.

But when the streets were wintry, And Brixton riot-free, The bird went out in daylight And nicked the pigs' Capri, So now there's only me. (Noel Petty) When I was young and carefree And on the YTS

I only needed heroin

, To find my happiness. I d chase the dragon daily To pass the time away. But I was young and carefree; Oh look at me today.

The YTS has ended, As all good things must do, And time now hangs suspended In the unemployment queue. The street has lost its magic As the leaves fall off a tree.

Now I am nearly twenty

And the dragon chases me. (Basil Ransome-Davies) Oh stay at home, my lad, and watch The snooker on the telly. Let others slave, and break their backs, And work to pay the income tax That helps to fill your belly.

Oh stay with others on the dole And take your forty quid; Too full already is the grave Of lads who worked to earn and save, And died because they did. (Michael Haynes) From Kensington to Camden Town, From Bloomsbury to Brent, I roam the city up and down Where once my comrades went.

And some are dead before their time, And some yet tread the mill, Who garrulous and blithe would climb, At twenty, Highgate Hill.

The tattered blooms of paper blow Through every London square; But lads lie down in Ludlow now Who wish that they were there.

(M. R. Macintyre) When I was one-and-twenty I was a light-foot lad, A tom-cat shinning drainpipes And many times a dad.

They put me on probation And wished I could be birched. I smashed shop windows nightly When from the pub I lurched.

Four coppers couldn't hold me, A vandal in his prime.

Then what thought I or heeded The greater vandal Time?

But now I'm one and eighty I toddle with a stick, I cannot put the boot in Or even heave a brick. (George Moor)