In Competition No. 2952 you were invited to submit nonsense verse of up to 16 lines on the subject of the EU referendum. So, as if you hadn’t had quite enough nonsense for one referendum — on stilts or otherwise — here’s another helping; though hopefully one that will make you smile rather than snarl. The winners pocket £25 apiece and Bill Greenwell snaffles £30.

When mithimade is allbijove
Beneath a grayling moon
Then hoey is the borigove
And wethers are in spoon

When dunkum smit is gallowade
Between the moggs and rees
Ah join the giselous parade
That bothams up the crease

How priti are the villiers
Out whitting in the dales!
How teehee utlier the furze
And dahlia the mails!

Now tebbitly the daltreys sound
To icke a trimble margin
Now pole the deling kippers round
That all may be faragin
Bill Greenwell

’Twas brexit and the merkyl foes
Did corbinate ’gainst lyb and labe.
All quipsy were the borisgoves
And the eukalips outgrabe.
He took his spressie sword in hand;
Longtime with brussel brouts he fought;
On refugees by the kalaytrees
He snirked in puffish plot.
And hast though slain the Kamberon?
O brexit joy, O gabrous gains!
For now we’ll close the chunni gate
And screep the euric chains.
’Twas brexit and the merkyl moaned
In tadish tant and uffish shout,
And while the Osbo grieved his loss
The flabrous brits danced out.
Frank McDonald

Jiggery pokery,
Inners and outers;
Mirrors and smokery,
Shouters and doubters.

Numbery dumbery,
Pick-your-own figures;
Zeroey summery,
Fudgers and riggers.

Puffery addery,
Texters and posters;
Battlebus gaddery,
Shysters and showsters.

Batey debatery,
Dingers and dongers;
Oh so light-weightery
Pingers and pongers.
W.J. Webster

The Eeyore reefer-rending woes
are multiplicious: neither toes
nor fingers will suffice to clot
this tarradiddliwobbly plot.
What rancid govishness, what bosh
of boorish doodle-dribbled tosh
can madify this horrifee
beyond the shores of Parody?
But Eeyorins are muffly too,
not compomens (like me, like you)
and not the sortlish commeel types
we’d want as chattipalli types.
We haver, luffish, feary-brink,
a blobblish floteabit or sink;
no votely folk would think to bless
the Prome who uprearraised this mess.
D.A. Prince

Said the Loris to the Bhorris: ‘Shall we dance a manic Morris
As we vote Remain in Britain’s referendum?’
‘No!’ the Bhorris told the Loris. ‘Shakespeare said — or was it Horace? —
Seas of troubles come from Europe, so let’s end ’em.’

Then the Farridge drove his carriage through the bureaucratic marriage
Crying ‘Europe’s laws are broke, no way to mend ’em!
I disparage such imparage,’ yelped the rabid,   ranting Farridge.
‘Crooked treaties! Let us rip ’em up and rend ’em!’

But the Oyster grimly voiced a catastrophic fear: ‘You’d foist a
Dreadful fate upon the British, for you’d send ’em
As you roister,’ said the Oyster, ‘to a pauper’s cell or cloister,
With your witless chant: europa est delendum!’

Well, the Hatter found this chatter such a deep, perplexing matter
That he wrote some letters, but forgot he’d penned ’em,
And the clatter of the platter of the tea-preparing Hatter
Woke the sleepy Dormouse: ‘What’s a referendum?’
Brian Allgar

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might.
‘Whatever we decide,’ Fred said,
‘We may not get things right.
We’re standing on the Dover cliff,
Debating what to do,
One half says Leave and one Remain
One’s me, and one is you!’
Then four young voters hurried up,
All keen to make their case,
Two screamed, ‘let’s stay!’ two shrieked, ‘lets go!’
Fred cried ‘Oh, give me space!’
Then Mabel said, ‘I’ve come to earth,
In fact I felt the bump —
We’ve got to take some sort of stand:
Let’s all hold hands, and jump!’
G.M. Southgate

No. 2955: the colour purple

You are invited to supply a report on a Uefa Euro 2016 match written in the florid style beloved of some sportswriters (150 words maxumum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 29 June.

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