Comp. 3456 invited you to mark 250 years since the birth of the United States with a poem. There were lots of entries – including from across the pond – and the standard was extremely high. A certain ambivalence towards Trump’s America seeped in, naturally enough. It pains me not to have room for Nick Syrett, Brian Murdoch, Basil Ransome-Davies, Adrian Fry, Janine Beacham, Sylvia Fairley, David Silverman, Angela Padwick, David Harris, Alan Millard, plus others. And for Max Guttman, whose entry begins:

In ’76 we fought with mother

England. Now, we fight each other.

Americans are red or blue,

and you hate me, and I hate you.

The £25 vouchers go to those below.

England’s oddballs sailed the seas

To live in bolshy colonies.

Independence was their thing

So they said ‘Sod off’ to their king,

And signed a solemn declaration

Theirs was a freedom-loving nation.

The right to bear arms was enshrined

As was the right to speak your mind.

Fired with confidence and zest

They drove their wagons ever west,

Transporting all the dreams they cherished.

(In the process, many Indians perished.)

Their mighty cities towered high.

And mighty hubris scraped the sky.

Now Trump may hurtle to disgrace –

But Elon’s rocketing into space!

George Simmers

We built the greatest country at the barrel of a gun

Ain’t no pesky foreigner can spoil our birthday fun;

We declared Independence when we won the war

So we don’t see the need to play nicely any more.

We’re blowing out the candles from Cuba to Iran

We’re roasting every enemy, from woke to Sadiq Khan;

We’ve been opening presents since tariffs were put on

(If you don’t want the stick, slip some carats to the Don).

We got rid of royalty, but here’s a little clue:

Hail to the Chief, capisce? (Just not Cree or Sioux.)

Give us your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free?

We’ll put them in a warehouse and throw away the key.

So do what you want, we just don’t care how many’ll

Join us to celebrate our semiquincentennial.

Once we’d have loved you all to come make a fuss;

Now sing up, you weaklings: ‘Happy Birthday to US!’

Richard Warren

The Founding Fathers brought forth in this land

Experiments in civics, faith and truth.

The monuments they sponsored then still stand:

A state mature yet conscious of its youth.

Those visionary architects be praised!

Those chemists in democracy’s laboratory;

The thinkers and the speakers who have raised

To the sublime the art of oratory.

For centuries to come it shall endure,

Those selfless patriots’ supreme renown;

Our more modest task but to ensure

We stage a fitting spectacle to crown

The vision they conceived in that bright dawn:

A glitzy cage-fight on the White House lawn.

David Shields

Two hundred and fifty! A glorious age!

The lawyers are thriving, the pundits enraged,

The Founders are quoted by people who’d hate

The actual Founders; but never mind that.

We’ve built something wondrous, half-temple, half-mall,

A nation that sprawls from the spring to the fall,

Where freedom means everything, right up until

It costs you something – then it’s a bit of a shill.

We marched and we argued and sometimes were great,

We moonwalked, we litigated, we ate, ate and ATE!

Enormous amounts, while the whole world looked on

Half-baffled, half-jealous, their sobriety gone.

So here’s to you, America: flawed, loud and vast,

Still writing the sequel, while haunted by past,

Still arguing over what ‘well-regulated’ means –

God bless you, you glorious, baffling Prom Queen!

Mark Brown

So here you are at two-five-oh, O Land once ‘of the Free’:

The rebel child who broke away to grasp autonomy.

Your birth was full of promise and your youth was full of rage,

But now you’ve reached a milestone. Have you really come of age?

You’ve walked our moon, you’ve mapped our genes, you’ve taught machines reflection;

You’ve dreamt up planes and chips and phones that changed mankind’s direction.

Your restless minds and endless drive make wonders seem routine:

A nation always chasing what the world has never seen.

Yet you’ve waged war for 50 years in liberty’s disguise,

And preached of peace while missiles traced their sermons in the skies.

Your billionaires hire Venice while your poor can hardly eat,

And populists can split your land with just a ragebait tweet.

So happy birthday, Uncle Sam – two hundred and a half,

And even now it isn’t clear if we should cry or laugh.

Just looking at the evidence, and given how things stand –

What on earth will you be like when you turn half a grand?

Tom Adam

No. 3459: Feverish

You are invited to submit a passage in which a heatwave is lavishly depicted (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 15 July.