Paracrostic

In Competition No. 2469 you were invited to supply a poem in which the initial letters of each line, read down the page, reproduce the first line.

Another comp that was last set nearly 30 years ago, when it was won by J. Crooks with the intriguing key line, ‘Moguls at the BBC’. This time round many of the key lines had a topographical slant. Examples were ‘Liverpool Central’, ‘The midges on Mull’, ‘On Morecambe sands’ and ‘Street maps reveal’. Two delightful openings were ‘A camel, please!’ (Piers Geddes) and Laura Garratt’s Pepysian ‘And so he went to bed’. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus fiver goes, with an extra handshake for his clinching joke, to Hugh King.

I am a bit upset by Bo,

A girl who tends the sheep,My flock went missing hours agoAnd she’s been fast asleep.Before I can protest she says,‘It’s sad how I keep losingThose sheep — I find their crafty waysUnbearably confusing.Perhaps that gate left open bySome antisocial pillockExplains how they escaped and whyThey’re on that distant hillock.’‘Bo, such neglect amounts to crime.You’d better fetch those sheepBack here before your suppertimeOr you’ll be Asbo Peep.’Hugh King

Too many cats blues ...

One cat is enough,One bundle of fluff.More than one is bad news.A trio, you’ll find,Needs constant surveillance.You leave in abeyanceComplete peace of mind.A troika of mogsTests your will to extremes,Sets you up for bad dreams.Better have dogs,Lord knows.Unicat homes are best of all,Each with a single animal,Surpluses otiose.G.M. Davis

On any day if I allow

New pleasures in my life,A nasty outcome brings somehowNew restlessness and strife.You might suppose I’d learn from thisDiscretion, calm, restraint;All these, alas, give me a miss,You see I’m not a saint.In truth when impulse wags its tailFar from saying, ‘Down, boy!’I play the silly feckless maleAnd think I’ve really found joy,Legging it from bar to bar,Lewd ladies on each arm —O what defenceless things we areWhen Nature means us harm!Richard Ellis

I wash my hair in dew

When summer nights are warmAnd the moon is bright and new;Starlight improves the charm.He’ll surface there, so cool,My ever hoped-for prince,Yes, I’ll see in the poolHis likeness while I rinseAway the magic foamIn bubbles on the grass;Romancing as I comb,I watch the fireflies pass.Now that I’m sixty, thoughDream lovers seem quite rare,Expectant, I still goWashing my greying hair.Alanna Blake

I am now growing old

And long in the tooth,More frightened than bold,No match for a youth.Once womenfolk eyed meWherever I went,Gathered beside meRomantically bent!Oh, how the years pallWhen they no longer glance —I fancy them allNow I haven’t a chance!Grown older I tire,Outmoded I rage.Lord, why must you fireDesire with age!Alan Millard

The family’s away.

Hooray! We can play!Each spider and fleaFeels suddenly freeAnd becomes acrobatic.Mice swing from the attic.Importunate bedsLaugh and stand on their heads.Yelling pans beat time,Slamming doors, clocks that chimeAdding rhythm. In pairsWaltz Chippendale chairs,Abandoned, unchecked.Yet they never suspect.Dorothy Pope

No. 2472: Your Ps and Qs

You are invited to incorporate the following words and phrases, in any order, in a plausible piece of prose: pique, quadruped, pipsqueak, prerequisite, quip, parquet, quid pro quo, plaque, square peg, Pinteresque. Maximum 150 words. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2472’ by 30 November.