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COMPETITION

Sense out of nonsense

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2006 you were invited to take from 'Jabberwocky' eight rhyme couples, not the actual words used but words rhyming with them, and present a sensible and amusing poem.

If you want to make a small extra income, bet friends and strangers a tenner that they can't write out the first verse of `Jabberwocky' correctly. Four out of five will spell torogoves' as torogroves'. After a year you'll have fewer friends and be shunned in pubs. As the rhyme scheme in `Jabberwocky' is not uniform, I allowed you the same licence as the author. `Wabe', I admit, was a tough one — the options were 'babe', 'Abe' or — and some of you took it on — 'astrolabe'. 'Mauves' and even `Fauves' were also pressed into service. Basil Ransome-Davies, Noel Petty, Paul Griffin, Sid Field and John Harvey all per- formed with customary adroitness, but it is those printed below who take the prize money of £25 per poem. The bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Frank McDonald for a witty and wickedly un-PC offering. I wandered lonely through some groves And chanced upon a perfect spot,

Where two consenting adult coves Gasped in surprise that they'd been caught.

Beyond a prickly briar patch They gaily chose to play their game, But they were loath to let me watch The love that dare not speak its name.

I had not chosen to destroy This harmless piece of forest fun, To scare the lovers or annoy; I merely smiled to see them run.

They fled along the forest track Quite heedless of their picnic food, And so it was I had a snack: From evil sometimes cometh good. (Frank McDonald) The Bible's interesting coves

Are many — let us start with Abe; An old-time nomad, round he roves, Begetting many a babe.

Hundreds he bred ere he had done, Or so they say — but of the batch Ike (that's the most important one) Made a romantic match.

Easy and Jack, twin sons, ensued. To gain the goodies was Jack's aim: Blind Dad he plied with savoury food, Assuming Easy's name.

'0 bless me too!' cried E., but who Can now redeem this fatal lack?

`All's gone', Ike said, 'to Jack instead.'

'So Pm all right,' says Jack. (Mary Holtby) Could I hurl thunderbolts like Jove's, The mortals I would first destroy Are summer tourists who,,in droves And outsize cars, descend on Fowey.

When narrow street and juggernaut Unite in such a bad mismatch A walk to shop downtown is fraught With peril of abrupt dispatch.

Indignant residents — I'm one - Not wishing to be 'late' or lame, Would rather rot indoors than run The risk — and that's a crying shame.

Motorist, park your Cadillac Miles distant from my neighbourhood And hike here with your haversack.

The exercise will do you good.

(Ray Kelley) Far from his god, a cleric roves, Faun-like, through glades of secret fun: A logic tutor seeks the groves Of paradox and pun.

With facts and figures overwrought, His lore he gladly would dispatch To themes unteachable, untaught, Where fantasies may hatch.

No holy orders kept him good, No mathematics led to fame: A strange-begotten nonsense brood Immortalised his name.

The textbooks, ranged in solemn rack, Were products fate would soon destroy: Imagination's deep-mouthed sack Spilled out a timeless toy. (Godfrey Bullard) Mark where in snug, unrented coves Beneath the purlins round my patch Slim spiders spin their treasure-troves Of hoped-for heirs to hatch, Which thrive, unscathed by rain or sun, Tight-lodged from predator's attack, Till lo, here comes the House-proud One With ladder, broom and vac, Sees, and debates awhile what good May pardon trespass on his claim, Or if such squatting parenthood Impugns his household's name: Should pity spare the humble port His uninvited guests enjoy?

I pause; then, with one suck, abort The unwanted hoi polloi. (Philip Dacre) None of his poems ever scanned, All his ambitions came to naught. Sun caused blisters, he never tanned; His life was generally fraught.

He prayed to shine, but never could, And chasing an elusive fame Did him a great deal of no good. He had only himself to blame.

He got in with a motley crew On the look-out for safes to crack, Never the leader, always led, Right at the bottom of the pack.

Of course he wound up in the dock, Guilty of some wet-headed ploy.

`Ten years,' they said, 'take him away.'

Why didn't I abort the boy? (J.T. Lehman)