Bouts limes

Jaspistos

In Competition 2359 you were invited to write a poem with a given rhyme-scheme.

With bouts times I prefer to take the rhyme-scheme from a published poem rather than invent one myself, because it's fun seeing how far you stray from the original subject matter. In this case the poem was Kingsley Amis's 'A Tribute to the Founder'. The rhymes, in some mysterious way, persuaded a great number of you to offer a nostalgic 'return of the native' piece: going back to the old place, noting the ghastly changes, the tea-shop where you once ate buttered scones . . etc. (Only Sassenach snobs, by the way, pronounce 'scones' to rhyme with 'tones') The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the Cobra Premium beer goes to Frank Mc Donald for the most inventive solution to the problem.

To study Earth we journeyed down, Our fourteenth visit — and our last; We hovered over field and town As was our custom in the past. Into our craft we took a youth, Sedated him, and so we made Him peacefully proclaim his truth; A wince was all the price he paid. He told us every loathsome thing About that most unpleasant place; Sadly we saw no opening For dialogue with such disgrace. We fed the savage buttered scones, For he had mentioned these as good, Then using primal, grunting tones We said farewell as best we could. Frank Mc Donald You promised me that you would let her down Quite gently, that she'd known it couldn't last; You'd have a final fling and paint the town, Pretending you could not forget the past You'd shared, or how you loved her in your youth, Meant all those former pledges that you made. Of course she knew the brutal, simple truth: Time has moved on and all old debts are paid.

I thought your plan was fine; I felt the thine Would soon be settled at the very place Where you first met, an easy opening To rid yourself of her without disgrace. You came at last, drank tea, ate currant scones, Wiped off some crumbs, said, 'Sorry, dear, no good.'

And added in apologetic tones, 'She couldn't let me go. I'm sure you could.' Alanna Blake He took his second, and went down, Bored stiff with Oxford to the last. It was (he thought) a ghastly town, Full of the ghosts of boredoms past.

After his quite ungilded youth, He worked at the career he'd made, And never bothered much with truth Or beauty. just with being paid (The only fashionable thing), Unmoved by time, unmoved by place, And never found an opening Either for grace or for disgrace.

Retired, over tea and scones, Maybe (he thought) there was some good, And would declaim in graveyard tones.

`If youth but knew. If age but could.'

Brian Murdoch The little fellow looked me up and down, Then smiled and turned to hammer at his last; The only working craftsman left in town, A precious relic of a distant past.

The hoots, the clogs, the sandals of our youth, Shoes for misshapen feet, all those he made. They fitted perfectly. worth more — in truth Far more — than the few shillings that we paid. Such neat hand-stitching, that's another thing You never find in that Foot Fetish place. Next month yet one more branch is opening— Their plastic stuff s an absolute disgrace — Where the homebaker's magic cakes and scones Once drew the hungry, My, they tasted good. Gone with the old clockmaker's chiming tones. Oh. I would turn the clock back if I could. G McIlraith Amanda rang that she was coming down Together with a nice young man — at last!

I'd feared that since she left to work in town Her prospects could be slowly slipping past.

He seemed quite well brought up, a pleasant youth; His hair was short, his jacket tailor-made.

He hinted, and I think it was the truth, His work was gentlemanly and well paid.

In every way he looked like just the thing To take the unlamented Kevin's place.

How sad, therefore, that such an opening Was followed by the ultimate disgrace.

He praised my 'sconns' — pronounced like that, not 'scones'.

I knew at once it wasn't any good.

In plumbers I can overlook such tones, But in a son-in-law I never could.

Noel Petty

We're here on holiday. The rain pours down. We've glimpsed the sunshine, but it doesn't last. We leave the beach, explore the dripping town, Its streets awash with memories of my past. That long-lost summer of my teenage youth Seemed filled with sunshine. It was here 1 made New friends— one special one, to tell the truth. We drank and danced and kissed. I never paid. We lived together, then — the obvious thing. One day I found a note. He'd left the place — 'Gone south somewhere. A job. An opening.' So I moved out, and went home in disgrace. The cafe windows stream. 'Right, tea and scones,' My husband says. That cream looks rather good.' I taste, and hear my lover's whispered tones. Could I have changed things? How [wish I

could ...

Joan Harris

No. 2362: Utterly outrageous

Following Batman on Buckingham Palace and intruders into the House of Commons, we await further and more surrealist protests. You are invited to provide a newspaper report of the next grotesque outrage. Entries to 'Competition No. 2362' by 7 October,