There was a slightly puzzling response to the call for comments on world affairs in a Hoodian vein.. Perhaps he is not now so well known as the setter thought. Below. in no particular order, are the nearest approaches to results the setter may have had in what’s left of his mind with thanks to all those who had a shot.
Julia Griffin: Hoodwinked
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born;
Though sadly, thanks to Balliol,
All trace of it has gorn;
And really, now I come to think,
It wasn't there at all
That I emerged, but rather in
The Radcliffe Hospital;
And this, I'm rather sad to say,
Has vanished in the mists
Of time as well – the hospital,
That is, no more exists
So if I really must define
My place of birth, I'd say
That "Oxford, near the Royal Oak"
Might be the safest way.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Daniel Galef: Mr Fry
(after Hood's "I Like You, Mrs Fry")
I like you, Mr Fry. I like your shows
the ones back in the 80s, made with Laurie.
I like your books, as well – the witty prose
(though leaning hard on Wilde), the witty story.
It makes me feel so smart to watch QI –
(even when it's wrong), I like you, Mr Fry!
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
D.A. Prince: Averse To Verse
Joe Simple thought his poetry
might earn some useful cash.
Ideas drummed in to him at school
meant he could have a bash.
He knew the written verses ought
to hold a steady beat
with metres measuring the lines
which tripped on dainty feet.
But oh, his hobbling scansion limped,
its arches falling flat;
its soul was dead as lifeless prey
delivered by the cat.
Joe Simple rued what listeners booed:
their rudeness hit him hard.
His verse would stay indoors, within:
from open mics he’s barred.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
L. A. Mereoie: Identity Crisis
A chef, of somewhat equine face,
Was, in The Old Grey Nag, an ace.
New patrons drooled. demanded more
And kept on coming through the door.
But, on a local moorland trek,
A horse-fly targeted his neck.
As pride and skin began to smart
He threatened to at once depart.
His looks may cry for bit and curb
And yet his omelettes taste superb,
So, lest a booming business fail,
They blamed it on his pony-tail.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Marshall Begel: Seasonal Neapolitan
No sun, no moon
No morning tune
No songbirds in my tree.
No work today
No joy till May
No break from misery.
No therapy
No shopping spree
No SSRI pill.
No weight loss goal
No ice cream bowl
No stopping till I'm ill!
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Mike Mesterton-Gibbons: Faithless Phil Fisher's School of Song and Dance
Phil Fisher sang with fishes that
He'd eat (a cunning lure):
Though songs with sole were often flat,
With tuna, scales were pure.
Once, out of fish on which to dine,
Phil danced a fishing reel
And mused "Is this a conga line?"–
He'd snared a conger eel.
Phil's fill of fish made him content
For years: they were not coy . . .
Until they changed their tune and sent
A mermaid for this boy.
She lured Phil off for them to scoff –
To fillet and ingest.
His bones now fill an icy trough.
Revenge served cold is best!
