Competition

From me to you

9 September 2017

9:00 AM

9 September 2017

9:00 AM

In Competition No. 3014 you were invited to submit a love poem written by one contemporary politician to another.
 
Virginia Price Evans, writing on behalf of Jeremy Corbyn, channelled Betjeman in a bid to woo the PM: ‘Theresa M May, Theresa M May, I sigh and I die for our special day…’. Frank Upton’s Jeremy Hunt clearly thought that a spot of Eliot might melt the heart of Baroness Primarolo: ‘In the room the women come and go/ Talking of “Dawn Primarolo”…’. And W.J. Webster imagined Nicola Sturgeon making eyes across the Channel at M. Macron:
 

The Auld Alliance, sealed long since,
Served both our nations well:
As two made one again, my prince,
We’d give the English hell.

The winners, who were tricky to choose, take £25. Frank McDonald pockets £30.

Wee gallus queen without a croon,
More canny than this auld buffoon,
A feisty fish,
I oft-times look ye up and doon
And sweetly wish.
 
Ah, you are blest compared wi’ me,
A fighter fair for a’ tae see.
You blaw yer nose and folk agree;
You dae nae wrong.
An angel wi a law degree,
You sing ma song.
 
From Alec do these verses come
Tae Scotland’s heid from Scotland’s bum.
Frank McDonald
 
Dear Tessa, I’m Putin, the Beast from the East.
I’m crazy about you. I’m rising like yeast.
I’m virile as Satan, as hard as the knout.
I’m the hoodlum your mother forewarned you about.
 
You may fool other men with your ladylike pose,
But I know that you throb from your top to your toes
When you meet a wrong number who’s up for romance
With Byronic appeal and a nuke in his pants.
 
We are neither vanilla — you have your shoes
And I have some military widgets I use —
So together we’ll cover the spectrum of sex
From the ferally raw to the weird and complex.
 
Forget Trump and Macron, they’re weaklings and fools.
We’ll live in a realm where we make our own rules,
And hit every spot our libidos allow
As undying love meets apocalypse now.
G.M. Davis
 
Vince, I think about you daily
As I steer the ship of state:
Here you dance the foxtrot gaily
While I battle waves of hate —
How I love your perfect gait,
How I’d love to share your ceilidh.
 
Yours the Europhilic smile,
Righteous, you remain invictus:
You Liberals are so versatile —
All I have’s this shocking rictus —
Oh your grace, your Benedictus!
How I love your guile, your style!
 
In the party conference season,
When it squats, the Brexit toad,
Bring my pumps, and, though it’s treason,
Waltz me down your middle road.
Bill Greenwell
 
Shall I compare the summer, Mrs May,
To that brief spell when thou wast all the fashion,
Before the fall — vox populi, vox dei
The people spoke; yet hear my words of passion.
Perchance, should nanny let me hold your hand
I’d see, although my rimless specs are foggy,
Thou art indeed the fairest in the land,
I’d curl up on thy lap, a faithful Moggy.
Come live with me, our marriage won’t be Gay,
Though tempora mutantur, change is not
The road down which reactionaries stray,
Rough winds won’t shake us as we tie the knot.
 
Yet, should there be a final fall from grace
I’m in the wings, prepared to take thy place.
Sylvia Fairley
 
How do I love thee? Lemme count the ways:
That friendly grin, that wise, paternal gaze,
That noble face, that fine patrician nose,
That orange windswept hair that almost glows;
The patriotic presidential skill
With which you urge your fans to maim and kill;
Your subtle way with women — grab her, nail her;
Your midnight tweets that threaten Venezuela;
Your undisputed art of making deals
By cutting useless costs like Meals on Wheels
And free school lunches (let those losers bitch!);
Your deep concern to feed the hungry rich;
The courage that enabled you to stare
Directly at the sun! Who else would dare?
 
Dear President, I know that you’ll agree:
They’re countless, all the ways we both love me.
Brian Allgar
 
At Cheltenham Ladies’ College we girls gathered little knowledge
Of the horny-handed males whose talk is tough.
Could that be the explanation why I now have a fixation
On what Teresa’d call ‘a bit of rough’?
Some may say you’re dinosaurish just because you’re old and boorish,
But I quiver at your caveman quality,
When you utter lurid stories about what you’d do to Tories,
My soul is whimpering: ‘Do it please to me!’
In the Commons when you face me, I am longing: ‘Oh embrace me,
Though our silly parties keep us so apart!’
You’re the Beast and you’re a bruiser, you’re politically a loser,
But Dennis Skinner, you’re the winner of my heart.
George Simmers


 

No. 3017: on the house

You are invited to submit a sonnet containing household tips. Email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 20 September.

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