In Competition No. 3292, you were invited  to provide a poem to mark the death of Betty Boothroyd.

The formidable Lady Boothroyd – the Guardian obituarist’s description of her exuding ‘warmth and wit’ and ‘a whiff of glamour’ was spot-on – brought out the best in you. There were neat acrostics from David Silverman and David Shields, and head–turning double dactyls from Richard Spencer and Alex Steelsmith. Here are Mr Steelsmith’s final two quatrains:

Eulogists speak of her
Honourability;
Countless admirers, while
Raising a cup,

Picture her shattering
Paradisiacal
Ceilings of crystal where
Time’s never up.

It was a struggle to whittle down a large and stellar field, and Janine Beacham was only just nudged out of the prizewinning line-up. The following five earn their authors £30 each.

The tolling bell now sounds its sad farewell.
No more we’ll hear the steely referee
Who ‘Order! Order!’ cried to cast a spell
And quell the Commons’ wild cacophony.

She was no flower born to blush unseen
Nor mute was she but, destined for success,
From Tiller Girl, the lively dancing queen,
She rose to be a noble baroness.

Trained as a Whip, she learned to crack the whip,
Became first woman Speaker of the House,
She’d crush the mighty with a cutting quip
And rule more like a lioness than mouse.

‘Time’s up!’ is called. The death knell ends her day.
She’s breathed her last and given up the ghost.
To heaven now she’ll doubtless wing her way
And call to order the angelic host.

Alan Millard

So farewell then, Betty Boothroyd,
She who, born in darkest Yorkshire,
Joined a troupe of dancing ladies
Till a fateful foot infection
Possibly a disguised blessing
Like unto an April shower
Germinating summer flora
Made of her a politician,
Speaker of the House of Commons
Where her honoured elevation
Proved unique, unprecedented,
Landmark, breakthrough and historic.
Thus the press and public hailed it.
Thus she called for ‘Order! Order!’
Thus she carries on, still wigless,
Sorting stroppy backbench angels.

Basil Ransome-Davies

The celebration table features Davis, White and Grable
And Miss Stöve, who is served a double fault.
At an honorary pinch, Lilibet and Corrie’s Lynch
are invited, but are well below the salt.

Hitherto the most adored was First Lady Betty Ford
although many had the hots for Betty Boop.
Now in the Speaker’s chair and her own West Riding hair
Betty Boothroyd calls for order and the soup.

She was born amid the mills dotting smoky Pennine hills,
and elected as the Member for West Brom.
With a bass voice built on drags from a daily pack of fags
she controlled a febrile Commons with aplomb.

She bellows ‘Time’s up!’ now, and tells the table how
as a Tiller Girl you can’t be prim or shy.
Ms Friedan has her qualms, but the Bettys all link arms
and then kick their shapely ankles to the sky.

Nick MacKinnon

When you start work by simply typing letters
but see a world beyond the office door;
when you aren’t cowed by class-division ‘betters’
but have a sense of what your life is for;
when you can pass the Tiller Girls’ audition
but notice showbiz isn’t gold but brass;
when you make Labour politics your mission
but don’t lose sight of being a Northern lass;
When you have five attempts at being selected
and don’t give up your fervent MP aim;
when, finally, for West Brom you’re selected
and prove a glamorous player in the game;
when you’re the Speaker both sides love, through knowing
that Erskine May’s where everyone must sup,
then you’re a national treasure, and your going
is deeply mourned when, in your words,     ‘Time’s up!’

D.A. Prince

Betty call’d me and I stood
Irresolute before her Chair;
Then she whisper’d ‘You’ll be good!’
And sitting back, she touch’d her hair;
All at once I found my voice
Though the sound of it appall’d me:
But I heard the whips rejoice –
Betty call’d me!

Betty call’d me and her bright
Eyes and smile were full of kindness;
I felt I’d regain’d my sight
After long dark years of blindness.
Say I’m silly, say I’m wet,
All I know is she enthralled me;
Say I’m sad, but don’t forget
Betty call’d me.

J.C.H. Mounsey

No. 3295: End of

You are invited to submit a comically appalling final paragraph to the worst of all possible novels. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 12 April.