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IN COMPETITION NO. 1996 you were invited to present a poem, gruesome or ungruesome, with a title kindred to William Plomer's 'The Dorking Thigh'.

The Glastonbury knee, the Pevensey prostate, the Stockton buttock, the Glas- gow gullet, the Peterborough prick . . . Not since I worked as a porter at Guy's Hospital have I had to face such unnerving disjecta membra. Chris Small managed only four lines, but I can't resist quoting them for the sake of the pun:

Hampshire born and Hampshire-bred, Thick in the arm and thick in the head, A heavyweight boxer not to be missed Was Farmer Golightly, the Andover Fist.

The winners, printed below, receive £25 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Bill Greenwell. (Appropriately, the road next to mine, where a Plomeresque murder took place ten years ago, is called Crediton.) The Crediton Nipple I suffer from Crediton nipple, A tough, unappealing complaint: The milk that my tiny twins tipple Is as thick as emulsified paint.

The left teat dispenses in metric, The right in imperial measure. The medical experts (obstetric) Observed me with palpable pleasure.

`Be careful, of course, you don't choke 'em,' Joked my doctor, while taking a peek, And last night a leather-clad locum Gave my mammary ducts quite a tweak.

`Bottle-feed!' whispered Mum at the wedding, `For the Crediton nipple's a squeeze.

But save it — it's perfect for spreading, Rather like Philadelphia cheese.'

(Bill Greenwell) The Pershore Forefinger Something irregular troubled the regulars Down at the pub tonight: The landlady's tabby had brought in a finger Not what the tabby would usually bring her. Someone was missing an index-finger, Someone was one finger light.

Clearly no midget was short of this digit Lengthy and bony and white.

The snug began buzzing with colourful questions. The vet figured large among several suggestions, The vet was beset with a barload of questions.

He put down his pint and said, 'Right.'

The locals fell still. 'Observe if you will, This here amputation, on my reputation, Was done with no blade, nor the edge of a spade, But' (eyeing the cat) 'with a bite.' (Andrew Gibbons) The Morecambe Toe It's purely a local mutation, On account of the nuclear plant.

Most people can wiggle and jiggle their toes, But folks around here simply can't.

Their toes are all fused into one toe That's not even webbed but en bloc. The absence of flexing is vexing, but still It's easy to pull on a sock.

Farewell to those problems of toe-jam. That's purely a thing of the past: No chink it can edge in or wedge in at all, Feet smooth as a shoemaker's last. It's quite an advantage in most ways Hygienic and shapely and stout; No trimming of toenails with no nails to trim, But walking's conclusively out.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) The Camden Nose One morning, on my daily walk through Camden, Whilst waiting at the traffic lights, I froze, For lying in the gutter, Imagine, to my utter Surprise I spied an all too human nose!

I had with me a plastic bag from Tesco's, And plonked the thing inside with some distaste; Perhaps it would be claimed By someone who'd been maimed?

So I headed for the hospital in haste.

Beside the entrance stood a wild-eyed woman. 'Give me that nose!' she cried with a grimace. `That', she said, and ran, 'Belongs to my old man - He cut it off to spite his stupid face!'

(Ron Rubin) The Cerne Abbas Willie It's not the Dorking thigh I hymn, York shank, or Piccadilly Forearm, or any bony limb. It's the Cerne Abbas willie.

That active member holds its proud Head high in self-respect: Though not gigantically endowed, Perpetually erect.

It shafts with scorn the insecure; Disdaining limp evasion, It tells men straight to be cocksure And rise to the occasion - A jolly roger old as time, But still a springing font Of hard-won wisdom, pricked in lime: STAND UP FOR WHAT YOU WANT!

(Ray Kelley)