For Competition 3460 you were invited to write a sonnet beginning ‘Shall I compare thee to a [trisyllable of your choice]’.

This challenge, which called for a twist on Sonnet 18, produced objects of comparison that ranged far and wide from bacon rolls to a simile. It was a popular competition, eliciting stellar performances all round; I was sorry not to have space for Helene Parry, David Silverman and Paul Freeman.

The seven best are printed below and earn their authors a £25 John Lewis voucher apiece.

Shall I compare thee to a tennis ball?

I’m moved betimes to give thee quite a whack

and yet it seems thou dost not care at all,

like summer’s lease thou keep’st on bouncing back.

Yet sometimes, when I need thy comfort most

I feel an absence when the call is ‘out!’

forsooth, it seemed you almost hit the post

and Hawk-eye’s there to rule out any doubt.

At times I’d drop thee, do it like a shot,

beneath my breath I murmur ‘What the deuce?’

thou’d strive, I fear, to take advantage, plot

to score, with rough winds playing fast and loose.

Time passes; hear the warning from above

and list to me, whatever ere befalls

it seems that thou art nearing forty love,

’tis time to join the legion of dead balls.

Sylvia Fairley

Shall I compare thee to a flag, half-mast,

That flaps and flutters as the wind decides,

Or to a hope once bright, that now fades fast

Like flotsam floating off on ebbing tides?

You swore you’d lead us to the Promised Land

Where, filled with milk and honey to excess,

You’d toast us, with a pint glass in your hand,

As people freed from poverty and stress.

Meanwhile, from dubious sources, so we’re told,

Bestowed by felons not to be admired,

You lined your pockets with ill-gotten gold

While claiming it was honestly acquired.

But soon, as an oasis offering drink

Turns out to be no more than a mirage,

You, with your so-called honest gains, might sink

Like Ozymandias in the sand, Farage!

Alan Millard

Shall I compare thee to a pop-up tent?

Thou art as lightweight, cheap and staunch in gusts,

I wrestle with thee, then, all patience spent,

I call thee rubbish, say thy size disgusts,

Sometimes thou leak, and smell of sweaty feet,

Thou cast thy shade, and suffer much from wind,

Thy durability cannot compete

With camper vans; some folk would see thee binned,

Yet thy low-tech enchantments have their charms,

Though often wet, you are quick-drying too,

My dearest home at festivals and farms,

My shelter, lacking little but a loo,

Therefore I’ll sleep within thy snug embrace,

And pray thou won’t collapse upon my face.

Janine Beacham

Shall I compare thee to a virgin queen?

Thy will prevails and well thou know’st thy will.

Whatever others will thou art serene

And so remain a willing virgin still.

But time will wither the unplanted seed

And maids, like wives and harlots, turn to dust.

To her who bears no infant to succeed

The offspring of a foreign cousin must.

If you can love me let us live and love

And share our woes by day and joys by night.

And if you seek approval from above

A priest will do the necessary rite.

But if you cannot love me love another

And be a better lover’s children’s mother.

Philip Roe

Shall I compare thee to a G and T?

Cool in thy glass with lime and melting ice

In this great heat thou art the drink for me,

Going fast down: a second would be nice.

That hint of quinine, medicine in a drink,

A lovely quaff of tonic, ice and gin

With floating rounds of lime. I truly think

A third elixir could not be a sin.

It makes me happy, sexy, light and bright.

The bottle’s still half full. A shame to waste

Something that gives such joy. Perhaps I might

Enjoy a fourth … a fifth… well … jusht a tashte.

Who says I’m pissht, and plashtered, shpeaking shlurred,

Giggling and gabbling nonshenshe, thatsh abshurd!

Shirley Curran

Shall I compare thee to a [fill in gap]?

Well, certainly not to a summer’s day!

Those far-fetched images are always crap.

Old Shakespeare often twists them anyway.

And furthermore, since when are you called ‘thee’?

I might be getting on, but I was not

Born sometime in the sixteenth century.

If I said that, you’d think I’d lost the plot.

Praising you with a sonnet’s hard enough

And so I’d rather keep the language plain,

And also leave out all that ‘thou art’ stuff.

In case you think I’ve really gone insane.

You know exactly what you mean to me

Without a metaphor or simile.

Brian Murdoch

Shall I compare thee to a President?

Your puffy orange face, your yellow hair;

The famed White House where you are resident

Now half-destroyed because you had to tear

The East Wing down to feed your vanity

And build a massive ballroom in its place;

Dementia, verging on insanity,

Though no one dares to tell you to your face.

Your thirty-four convictions, all for fraud;

Another one for sexual aggression;

The riot people witnessed you applaud –

‘Go fight like hell!’ A virtual confession.

A President? No, just a low-life scum –

Except to your supporters, just as dumb.

Brian Allgar

No. 3463: Name dropping

You are invited to submit an acrostic poem in the style of a well-known poet, the first letters of each line spelling out the poet’s name or names (initials allowed). Please email entries (maximum 16 lines) to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 12 August.