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COMPETITION

The biter bit

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1891 you were invited to submit a narrative poem with the above as a title.

The origin of the phrase is `bite' meaning to cheat. The first narrative poem on this theme is surely Aesop's fable about the adder that slipped into a blacksmith's shop and tried to swallow a file. It was illustrat- ed by Tenniel, but John Vernon Lord's version, reproduced here as a special treat, is even better.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky belongs to Noel Petty. Our tale concerns an English don Whose claim to fame was based upon His scheme to treat all men of letters Like students, graded by their betters. Thus idle Goldsmith, he averred, Was fortunate to scrape a third, And Scott, he generously reckoned, Had earned by graft his lower second; But wags like Sterne he couldn't abide And sent them down unclassified. Poor Chatterton, who never sat His finals, was classed aegrotat. Only one name survived the worst: George Meredith received a first.

The don expired; Posterity Awarded him a pass degree. (Noel Petty) Slugger McVitie, also called 'the Biter', Was not the ring's most smoothly polished fighter.

He'd never feint, or jab, or bob his chin Just force a clinch and sink the choppers in. The other man would freeze in helpless rage, Leaving the biter time to disengage And fell him with a thunderous uppercut. Victory succeeded sneaky victory; but Nemesis stalked. One day, locked in the hug, A canny boxer (not the usual mug) Contrived to fill McVitie's shiny pants With half a dozen most voracious ants. The startled Biter staggered back a yard; Then — as you might expect — he dropped his guard.

A fist shot out and (see how Heaven is just) The sorely bitten Biter bit the dust.

(Chris Tingley) Lord Fayn pursued a life of ease With unremitting sloth; He kept one eye upon the world, But rarely opened both.

Throughout a soft and gilded youth - All carat and no stick - He never turned a languid hand But for his dog to lick. Mere indolence, it seemed, ensured A life quite free from strain; But then he gave a cracking yawn And swallowed half his brain.

The only guarantee of rest, As all too late he found, Is not to lie with two feet up, But six feet underground. (W.J. Webster) The warlord, bold Sennacherib, In words vaingloriously glib, Decided on some dirty tricks To knock the Israelites for six And through the firepower of his host To have his enemies on toast.

But hubris tempts the hand of fate: Poetic justice lay in wait; For God, resolved to intervene, Despatched a minion to the scene, Whose breath, an exhalation dire, Would cause the Assyrians to expire.

Next day, 'mid noise of celebration, Came clamour for an explanation.

The MO gave his diagnosis: Death by angelic halitosis. (Watson Weeks) E.G., a literary bloke, Enjoyed the odd vindictive joke, And often, taking as his butt Some earnest author, he would cut The precious oeuvre down to size.

All winners of the Booker prize And writers of bestselling hits Were grist to E.G.'s vicious crits.

Folk said, 'Old man, you ought to do A book yourself; it's clear that you Have learnt the ropes.' A well-known name Helps in the publication game, But then reviewers all abused Him mercilessly. Unamused, He shot himself; he left a note.

`Quite the best thing he ever wrote.'

(Alanna Blake)

No. 1894: Anacreontic a la mode

Now that women drink together in gangs just like men, why shouldn't they have their own drinking songs? You are invited to supply one (maximum 16 lines). Entries to `Competition No. 1894' by 10 August.