COMPETITION

Rock music

Jaspistos

for a lullaby or bedtime song for the modern child.

In the back of my mind when I set this was a mad snatch penned by Beachcomber before the days of the even madder Race Relations Act, which went something like this:

Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop, When the wind blows the securities drop, When the wind blows the securities fall, Then down will come Sonnenberg, Gottlieb and all.

A witty lullaby is of course a contradic- tion in terms: you can't stimulate and tranquillise simultaneously. There have been a number of anthologies for insom- niacs, but none of them works. I remember When I was once trying to woo Morpheus, as we used to say, with the help of Edith Sitwell's anthology Planet and Glow- worm, two lines by the Elizabethan George Peele threw me into such excite- ment that I lay awake all night:

God in the whizzing of a pleasant wind Shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees.

But a nos moutons, the sort that get counted. There were plenty of good en- tries, a few of them so sharply modern that 'child' was interpreted as a thumb-sucking teenage punk under a tartan duvet. Chas F. Garvey had .a pleasant opening: 'Soft- ware, software, press the key,/Go to sleep computerly. . .', but his lullaby went astray after that.

T. S. Griffiths heads the list of honour- able losers. The winners printed below get £7 each, and the bonus bottle of Comte de Robart Champagne (Rosé Brut), pre- sented by the Ebury Wine Company, 139 Ebury St, London SW1, is Joan Van Poznak's.

Rock, baby rock, To that old-time beat of Dr Spock.

Your dad's a high achiever livin' way beyond his means, And Mama holds the credit cards in her designer jeans. With one hand she can stir-fry in her wok, While you rock, baby, rock.

Rock, baby, rock, Your squallin' carries all around the block. You may hear a different drummer and a tune no one can sing, Maybe grow to be a mogul or just do your own damn thing, But whether you're a genius or a jock, Shut your little face and rock, baby, rock.

(Joan Van Poznak) Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, TV wakes you when you rise; Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, And I'll turn up the tranny high.

Life is heavy, try to sleep; One good way is counting sheep:

Look! some have five legs, some have six. . (Fallout plays such funny tricks.)

Mum's moved in with Auntie Kate, My name's Doug — I'm Dad's new mate; Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, And some day you'll look like Princess Di.

(Ron Rubin) Where is a galaxy made of ice-cream? Deeper and deeper and deeper in dream. In a bright rocket, the rocket of sleep, You are the captain in space dark and deep, Floating and weightless. In orbit you go, Soft as a pillow the cloud-bed below.

You are descending by slow parachute, Pillowy astronaut in a space-suit.

(George Moor) Sleep, little darling, As mum as a mole.

You'll need to sleep plenty For life on the dole.

Dream, little darling, Dream in your cot; If dreams don't come easy, You can go to pot.

Rock, little darling, Till the end of time.

If you can't earn your living There'll always be crime. (Eric Preston) 0 hush thee, my baby, no need for alarm.

I'll stay by your side and protect your from harm.

Though Mummy and Daddy are busy elsewhere, What need you of them when you have the au pair? Your father must work till the dawn starts to lift — He's dealing in bonds on the Tokyo shift; Your mother's flown out to her branch in LA; So don't cry, my sweet, you'll be loaded some day.

0 hush thee, my baby; they say every man is No more than the sum of the whims of his nannies.

So you'll be the first generation of leaders In thrall to your Hedwigs and Heidis and Friedas. (Noel Petty) Bye, Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting. Hasn't ever been before Sabbing with the Cottesmore.

Bye, Baby Bunting, Daddy's home from hunting, Crashed his Honda, wet his socks And got bitten by a fox. (Alice Renton) Hush now, my little one, Windscale's close by, It's been renamed Sellafield — I don't quite know why.

Tomorrow we'll go for a walk in the park, Then we'll come home and quietly glow in the dark.

(Kris Quatermass) Go to sleep, go to sleep, Go on counting little sheep, Go on counting one, two, three Becquerels for you and me.

Go to sleep, go to sleep As the acid droplets seep Into lakes and into trees Here at home and overseas.

Go to sleep, go to sleep — Soon there will be no more sheep.

Gently, gently rest your head — All of fairyland is dead. (Ian Menzies)