COMPETITION

Monorhyme

Jaspistos

n Competition No. 1564 you were asked for a ten .(or more)-line piece Of verse with only one rhyme, and that of two syllables.

The most remarkable poem in this genre Is Surely Dr Fitzgerald's 'A Rhyme for Tipperary' (thank you, Catherine and Gerard Benson' for kindly sending the text), which begins: 'A poet there was in sad quandary/To find a rhyme for Tipper- ary' and then staggers loonily and with a cavalier disregard of strict rhyme through 85 lines, to 'end:

He paced about his aviary,

BleW up, sky-high, his secretary,

And then in wrath and anger sware he, There was no rhyme for Tipperary.

Among those who earn praise, if not Pounds, are Paul Griffin, Lynette V. Harke, Philip A. Nicholson, Peter Hadley, Ba Miller and Mary Holtby. The winners below get £15 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Zinfandel (Mariah Vineyard) 1984, pre- sented by Mr Jedediah Steele of the Kendall-Jackson Winery, Lakeport, Cali- fornia, is awarded to Peter Norman.

Perhaps I'm somewhat prejudiced, but no one makes me sicker That that paragon of trendiness, our loathsome !goal vicar!

His voice combines the worst of Roland Rat and Alan Whicker

With its. studied affability; his irritating snicker When he makes a joke 's enough to drive one's maiden aunt to liquor.

He drives a battered Beetle with a bright fluorescent sticker .

Reading: 'Rabbis do it by The Book but vicars do it quicker!'

Here in rural Kent he sees himself as quite the city slicker With a mission to explain the new theology to thicker Members of his parish, and a willingness to bicker

Over Harvest Supper menus — he insists on chicken tikka.

After polishing the altar brass I never get a flicker

Of acknowledgment — and that is why 1 loathe

our local vicar! (Peter Norman) On book-promotion tours Down Under I always take my own gazunda — A brass and walnut Waugh-style thunder- Box, so if I have to thunder, Or should my bowels burst asunder, I never need to fret and wonder.

It would be such a frightful blunder To get caught short. I'd feel a dunder- Headed ass to lose my funda- Menials seeking Aussie plunder.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) The moonlight shone that night with tropic splendour, And I Was young, my heart unsure and tender, With little knowledge of the female gender, When there she stood, a maiden tall and slender,

Who shyly.asked me whether I could lend her A pin or piece of string wherewith to mend her Most treacherous and ill-designed suspender. But as I stooped, a helping hand to render, (How could I know my action would offend " her?)

She punched me like a heavyweight contender. No way this story is a happy-ender, No sweet romance, no blissful soft surrender; She left me reeling like an all-night bender.

(0. Smith) Smoky air around the dais is Thick with drums and double basses.

On the floor the dance-hall ace is Going through his lonely paces, Looking round for likely faces.

Enter Kate; her fragile grace is Hardly suited to such places.

Will she answer his grimaces?

No! She knows that such hard cases Only want a girl's embraces.

Later, from the parking spaces, Sadly she her steps retraces. (Noel Petty) Was ever father overwroughter?

Was ever situation fraughter?

For word has reached me that my daughter, Entrapped by all the gifts he's bought her, The wicked wiles with which he's sought her, The sneaky snares in which he's caught her,

Has run off with a Sun reporter.

Alack that I had e'er up-brought her!

She's doing what she didn't oughta!

And oh! the naughty things he's taught her!

He's led her like a lamb to slaughter — Or do I mean a duck to water?

He'll have his way; he'll give no quarter.

Thank God the nights are getting shorter!

(Keith Norman) Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita I fell for a barperson called Conchita, A busty Andalusian serlorita (Alpha for bosom, for the rest a beta Minus query). I resolved to treat her To dinner. She drank litre after litre, Then rose — I must admit, without a teeter — And said she had to leave at once to meet her Fiancé, an agronomist called Peter.

Her exit couldn't have been neater, fleeter.

And so across the years I wryly greet her And curse her in this bloody boring metre.

(Henry Logan)