COMPETITION

Doggerel

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1830 you were invited to write a poem, either in doggerel or in the manner of A.A. Milne, on the subject of the Prince of Wales's lost Jack Russell terrier.

Your entries put to shame our Poet Laureate, who, given a glorious chance to write tragically about a royal beast, has remained mysteriously silent. Pooh, by the way, is or was a bitch, but as I didn't tell you that and I see no reason why you should have known, I allowed competitors to call her a dog. The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Angela Evans.

Pooh, Pooh, terrier, terrier, Squat little rat on a lead, What made him run from his master — Boredom or lust or greed?

Last seen hurtling homewards, Is the body afloat in a ditch?

Is he stuck down a hole? Maybe hung from a pole?

Shacking up with an amorous bitch?

Pooh, Pooh, terrier, terrier, Hasn't been heard of since, Despite all the media coverage They give to the dog of a Prince.

Though Pooh will soon be forgotten, The moral is clear to see: You should not take your dog to the edge of a bog if you want him back home by tea.

(Angela Evans) A humble poet that seeks no tame nor yet a crown of laurel, I take up my pen to write of the calamity at Balmoral, For the Poet Laureate has written no lines of it at all And the duty falls to the loyal hand of me, McGonagall, Who is very sorry to hear of the Royal: distress at that same noble castle At the loss of a favourite pet and friend, His Highness's Jack Russell.

Though a corgi or two might not be missed, the Court could not be sorrier To hear of the mysterious loss of the Prince of Wales's terrier.

By all accounts it's a well-bred dog, obedient and handsome, And some have fears that he was taken to be held to ransom, And some suspect those Travellers that roam about the country, And some the saboteurs of hunts that try to plague the gentry. But some think he has only strayed feeling the call of the wild, Excited maybe by the March hares jigging in a field.

So let us all pray that his Royal dog will be discovered yet Resting in a fox's earth or by a badger's sett.

(Ralph Sadler) What a fearful to-do! What a hustle and bustle! Charles has lost Pooh, His beloved Jack Russell.

The Prince appears tense As police dredge the lake. `Please spare no expense — Pooh's life is at stake!'

A handsome reward Will be paid to the donor Who sees Pooh restored To his eminent owner.

What a fearful to-do! For Charles has lost Pooh And it's somehow symbolic. (Peter Norman) I'm rather perturbed about poor little Pooh. She simply upped sticks, didn't say toodle-oo!, Didn't leave an address—just departed from view: Her behaviour's decidedly rummy.

Perhaps she just fancied a stroll out alone, And is lying low somewhere enjoying a bone — Some girls seem to need to have time on their

CIV/11.

('One rather does fear so,' says Mummy.) I've put in an advert — you know, 'Lost & Found' — In the hope that some hiker may notice the hound.

They'll recognise her, for she's rather too round,

And goes wild when you tickle her tummy. And there'll be a search-party with Tigger and Roo (Rabbit's friends and relations will doubtless come too), For without that sweet bitch I don't know what I'll do!

('One has heard that before,' murmurs Mummy.)

What a tabloid-led frolic! (Martin Woodhead) I've lost my little doggie, His name is Pooh.

I've lost my little doggie, Boo-hoo-hoo!

I went to ask my Mummy And Grandmummy too: 'Mummy and Grandmummy, Have you seen Pooh?'

I've been to Aberdeen and back, I've searched the whole of Ayr, I've looked down every pavement crack And halfway down the stair.

If anyone has beaten him,

I don't know what I'll do.

Diana says she's eaten him — Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, hoo!

(Bowen Bradings)