In Competition No. 3296, you were invited to provide a poem whose rhyme words are all at least three syllables. You riffed off W.S. Gilbert, Wordsworth and Dylan Thomas,among others, in limericks, double dactyls and villanelles, about subjects ranging from Gary Lineker to sex dolls. Philip Roe, Barbara Jones and Chris Ramsey shone, but the winners below take £25.

The wisdom of Lord Bostock was, to say the least, debatable,
For, shunning living ladies, he had purchased an inflatable.
He took her home, unpacked her, and he used her energetically,
Excitedly, delightedly, and finally frenetically.
He never doubted she could bear the strain of his virility;
She burst when he was in a pose of minimal   stability.
As he hit the floorboards he could feel his femur fracturing,
And, seething, cursed the shoddiness of modern manufacturing.
He vowed he’d have his vengeance with a fury none could mitigate;
Duplicitous solicitors encouraged him to litigate
(They were the sort whose stony hearts were only ever thrillable
By thoughts of affidavits where each syllable was billable).
He lost his case, went bankrupt, and gained nothing but publicity
From titillated tabloids who lampooned him with lubricity.
The moral of the story is that feminine reality
Should always be preferred to plastic artificiality.

George Simmers

Old story time: a man – it always is –
Emerges as abnormally ambitious,
Speaks rousingly of making futures great,
But what he says is simply meretricious.
No problem there, of course, since as a rule
What best succeeds is being pertinacious;
Most people hear just what they like to hear,
No matter if it’s brazenly mendacious.
But winning votes will give our man a base,
And so he needs exploit democracy;
But once it’s worked he casts its dead weight off,
Enjoying unrestrained autocracy.
This sequence and its deadly aftermath
Are written bold in books of history,
So why the signs are always left ignored
Remains and will remain a mystery.

W.J. Webster

Wandering alone like a cloud cloaked in gloominess
Floating on high over mountainous gradients
I beheld daffodils, gloriously luminous,
Sway by the lakeside in brilliant radiance;
Watching them stretch away, still dancing distantly,
Bright as the stars at night, shimmering, glittering,
All of my loneliness disappeared instantly
And, seeing trees where the songbirds were twittering,
Sadness was turned into happiness straightaway,
Gone were my feelings of sorrow and dreariness
As was that innermost voice sighing ‘lackaday’
Brought on by arduous, burdensome weariness;
Now in my mind’s eye as dusk darkens eventide,
Here on my couch I can wipe away tearfulness
Simply remembering that scene by the waterside
And, just as then, be uplifted with cheerfulness.

Alan Millard

Go peaceful into your annihilation;
The lot of man is mute subservience.
Fate is not moved by human protestation.

Anger will give your life no prolongation
And tears won’t alter Fate’s indifference.
Go peaceful into your annihilation.

Rage as you will with noisy indignation;
This brief display will have no consequence.
Fate is not moved by human protestation.

Accept your end with placid resignation
And do not hope for any recompense.
Go peaceful into your annihilation.

Ignore the fools who have a fascination
For leaving life with bold belligerence.
Go peaceful into your annihilation;
Fate is not moved by human protestation.

Frank McDonald

Shall I compare you to a constellation,
Some grandeur out of Greek mythology,
A figment of rapt night-sky veneration,
Born of connect-the-dots cosmology?
Is mine a high enough imagination,
A mad enough approach to sanity,
To praise you with galactic elevation
Yet yearn for you with mere humanity?

Some points of light are cause for celebration,
While some pulse ghastlier veracity –
Hot muzzle flashes of annihilation,
Harsh travesties of luminosity.
But every glimpse of you brings consecration
And invitation to vast exploration.

Chris O’Carroll

Is there a US resident
Without a fixed position
About their former President –
Deep love, fierce opposition?

In spite of lies and treachery –
Inflaming insurrection –
(That’s not to mention lechery),
He’s seeking resurrection.
The ‘victim’ loves publicity,
It’s clear from his demeanour,
But criminal duplicity
Is no mere misdemeanour.

Though lovers of autocracy
Applaud this mad farrago,
Say justice and democracy:
‘Jail Mr Mar-a-lago.’

Nicholas Hodgson

No. 3299: Songlines

You are invited to supply a short story that takes as its title the title of a Beatles song. Email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 10 May.