COMPETITION
No. 571 : Hair piece
Focus, the Consumer Council's magazine, last week published some findings that will be of comfort to those suffering from bald- ness. The belief that men lose their virility along with their hair is nonsense, it was reported: on the contrary, balding indicates a perfectly normal state of affairs.. After all, they point out, eunuchs did not become bald. Competitors are invited to suggest an opening chorus for a new musical, Hairless, celebrating this happy news. Maximum sixteen lines: entries, marked 'Competition No. 571', by 3 October.
No. 568 : The winners
Trevor Grove reports: A specially appointed judeine committee recently chose a stirring
new national anthem for Rhodesia, whose last verse runs: Onwards Rhodesia, go forward with pride, Clear be our vision as the skies are above, Deep as a mine be our true understanding, Warm be our fellowship, perfect our love.
Competitors were infited to suggest two alternative verses in the same metre. I understand that the anthem-judging com- mittee were so completely flummoxed as to who should be declared the winner that they had to amalgamate two of the entries to produce the final version. I confess" to similar difficulties, though in point of wit, style and uplifting sentiment my task was I am sure a good deal more grateful than theirs. P. W. R. Foot's first verse ran: Flourish democracy! Long live the Queen! Long live the Whites! The rest are obscene. Whitewards Rhodesia, may nothing you lack Ours is the land and we won't give it back!
... and ditto Adam Khan's: All-White Rhodesia; Minority Rule; Downright dominion, are the aims of our soul: To the poor Kaffirs we'll be like Big Brothers, Warm in our stranglehold, firm in control.
In sterner mood, Vera Teller wins two guineas: Age-old Rhodesia, our fathers renewed you, Cherished and tended and made you their own, Guarded and guided your primitive children, Gave them a purpose they else had not known.
Dare we Rhodesians put down the burden That God, for all time, on our white shoulders laid? Nay. We will carry it though the world hate us, Selfless protectors, of scorn unafraid.
Three guineas to Martin Fagg, who favours a blunter approach: Stifle their sanction and bust their embargoes, Foil every plot that fell Harold has laid; Let oil flowing inward, in deft lubrication, Grease every hinge on the portals of Trade.
Let the White Man go forward, with ardour unstinted, Eager to brave every crisis that comes; Let the blackies remain as the Maker intended— Lazy, illiterate, beer-sodden bums. _ And four guineas to W. F. N. Watson and his ingenious envoi: Backwards, Rhodesia, to Progress cry Halt; Turn back both the hands of Democracy's clock : None shall dissuade us, or make us see reason, On our own Dunghill we'll still be the Cock.
Ballots for Bantu? One Kaffir, One Vote? Not on your nelly—they prefer life in chains : On our own powder-keg we'll sit as masters,
Reaping the whirlwind, white hand on the reins.
Envoi Uffish Rhodesia, what dogg'rel you spawn; Strangled my Muse is in its tortured embrace Curst be the lubber that dredged up such metre, Limping in scansion, uneven in pace.
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