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COMPETITION

Copy Cats

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1880 you were invited to supply a suitably canine lyric for Lloyd Webber's future musical, Dogs.

I'm a melancholy Dane and the reason's very plain:

I suffer from excessive elevation ...

I'm a thoroughly mixed-up mongrel, I'm a most amazing dog: So bizarre a hound that I can't be found in the Kennel Club catalogue ...

There were plenty of rousing beginnings, like these two by Francis Mullen and Julia Donaldson, but not many competitors sus- tained brio and punchiness to the end. Pippa Legg gets a special mention for her outrageous 'Don't cry for my Afghan, Tina', and W. J. Webster gets another for his lines on Gregorios, the retired grey- hound. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Mary Holtby.

There's a shudder down the line and the rails begin to whine As the flash of the computers tells the score; For as sure as they are winking there's a frightened driver shrinking - The poor fellow simply can't take any more.

He knows that on the Shuttle there's a terrifying mutt'll Leap completely unannounced into his cab; With the cheek of Border reivers he will settle on the levers And it's anyone's conjecture which he'll grab. There's none who can unravel why the beast desires to travel, Nor why nobody can stop him on the track, And the driver fears his babies will be liable to rabies And on top of that their dad will get the sack. O the horror and the dread when he spies that furry head, O the gagging, and the gurgling in his gut! Yes, that driver's simply barking well before the final parking, When he scuttles from the Shuttle and the mugging of a mutt. • (Mary Holtby) I'm a golden-haired retriever, I'm as eager as a beaver, Though my shrink asserts I'm very highly strung; At the merest thunder-clap, I leap on my master's lap, While a ginger tom will leave my withers wrung.

For I'm no hard dog, no macho guard-dog, No hearty, outdoor kennel and back-yard dog; No, I'm cuddly, soft and sweet, sybaritic and effete;

I'm a flaeur from way back, a boulevard dog.

When at Cruft's I wow the punters and eclipse the Afghan hunters,

On the cat-walk (so to speak!) I strut and preen; And I've talked to Tony Clare in the Psychiatric Chair; Next it's Desert Island Discs — La Lawley's keen!

But I'm no fight dog, no growl and bite dog; I'm no put the milk- and post-men all to flight dog; For if faced by any robber, I will lick his hand and slobber, Then it's party time till dawn for this all-night dog. (Watson Weeks) If you think it is men who own dogs, think again; The dog is the master, you'll find.

It's the two-legged species that picks up the faeces And walks with a poop-scoop behind.

We've a built-in boudoir in the back of the car For slumber will often assail us.

Though we always defer to our human chauffeur We'll give him the sack should he fail us.

We do more than our share of community care When explosives and drugs we detect.

Cave Canem's the rule in the criminal's school; Our methods are quick and direct.

We've had signs erected at places suspected Of serving a lower-class trade And bipeds can revel and go to the devil Wherever 'No Dogs' is displayed.

(D. Shepherd)

I'm a spotty dalmatian of pure pedigree; You won't find a fellow more dashing than me. There are dogs that are brindled and patchwork and pied, There are black-snouts and white-paws, and others beside, But it's plain as the nose on a cake-hunting peke That my coat's the last word in impeccable chic; Which is why I shower blessings on sire and on dam, Just grinning like mad at how spotty I am.

Now my bride's a dalmatian, a regular dish; She's as spotty as any fond husband could wish. We're really not snobs. We unbend to a fault With the neighbouring mongrels of pepper-and- salt,

And, for all the noblesse our condition confers, We're even quite kind to poor monochrome curs.

But mostly we stroll down the main boulevard, Just grinning like mad at how spotty we are.

(Chris Tingley)

No. 1883: Hit list

In The Mikado Ko-Ko singg a song listing the sort of people whose loss would be a distinct gain to society. You are invited to provide a topical 'list' poem or song (maxi- mum 16 lines) which does the same job. It need not be Gilbertian. Entries to `Competition Ng4.1883' by 25 May.