Sorry, mate

To say ‘I’m sorry’ once can be emollient, but as everybody knows, to say it three times with arms flapping like a penguin is downright inflammatory. Most of your apologies were for sexual misbehaviour. Since there are so many other domestic sins just as exasperating as infidelity I found this surprising. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus fiver goes to D.A. Prince.

Dear, there’s so much — so where do I begin?

(To you the smallest fault’s a mortal sin.)

I’ve boiled your egg too hard (again!); your Times

Is creased (I read it first); the cat — her crimes

Are also mine — slept on your scarf; the car

has yet another scratch; the Marmite jar

is empty; yet again the toast is burned.

You muse on all the skills I’ve never learned.

So while I’m kneeling, desperate to atone,

I’ll fling in all the men I’ve ever known.

You never guessed? — OK, well, here’s the names:

George, Simon, Toby, Christopher, Matt, James,

the plumber (unpronounceable), Tom, John,

Sid, half your cricket team (shall I go on?),

Bill, Martin (he was great!) — you want the rest?

I feel much better now that I’ve confessed.

D.A. Prince

I know I never turned the other cheek

Unless it was to field a further kiss.

My aim in sinning widely was to wreak

Revenge on cocky men. I found it bliss

To practise sly deception on each mate

Before deserting them for models new.

But my behaviour has improved of late:

In spite of recent flings I’ve stuck with you.

I’ve lost the urge for bathing in the nude,

For random speeding after drunken sprees,

Shoplifting’s not much fun. Now I’m being shrewd

And publicly extend apologies,

While secretly aware that you will turn

This scandal to your benefit again,

Your fine forgiving nature sure will earn

Applause and backing in your next campaign.

Alanna Blake

Dear spouse, kindly pardon the permanent hard-on

That tempts me to playing away.

Commitment’s my credo, but still my libido

Will have its concupiscent way.

I’d never disparage the value of marriage,

It’s just that a man has his needs;

Testosterone forces with which his blood courses

Compel him to sexual misdeeds.

So regrets for your sister (I couldn’t resist her!),

The vicar, the Shuttleworth twins,

And the woman from Tesco, and that time al fresco

With the maid on the recycling bins,

And all those I’ve bedded, the years we’ve been wedded —

Let’s face it, the scale is extensive.

Yet I feel I’ll be shriven once gifts have been given,

As long as they’re hugely expensive.

Basil Ransome-Davies

My darling, I have to confess it,

As a wife, I am one of the worst:

I’m sorry I borrowed your biro

And your car without asking you first;

I admit that I spent pretty freely

(After all, you had plenty to spare),

But I didn’t dispose of the Rodins

Till the bank account looked rather bare;

It’s true that I spoilt our poor baby

Till he grew up disgruntled and fat

And looks rather like Kingsley Amis —

I’m afraid there’s a reason for that.

I regret that I told all your colleagues

About your liaison with Jim,

But at least they’ll discuss it no longer —

Sorry, dear, I’m eloping with him.

S.E.G. Hopkin

Jane was young and so was Kitty;

Love with them rang briefly true.

Kate would laugh and Jill was pretty;

But always I came home to you.

Sally’s hands gave gentle healing,

Jenny’s eyes were baby blue,

Jo’s lips soft, Nell’s smile appealing,

Love was all that Mary knew.

For years I drained Love’s heady pitcher

And plucked wild flowers, as men will do,

In meadows where the grass seemed richer.

But always I came back to you.

And now I’m old and dreams are over

I bring you roses sprigged with rue

And beg you to forgive this rover

Who makes his last way home to you.

Martin Parker

Babe, if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have touched that bridesmaid,

Wouldn’t have spent me wedding night passed out over the bog.

I’d have been there for me firstborn, but you know how thin me hide’s made;

I needed a skinful ’fore I could face the little sprog.

Doll, if I had me time again, I’d never have squandered your savings,

Though Dean down the Anchor swore blind that dog was a cert.

And I’d never have praised up our kids for all their terrible misbehavins

Cos I know how seein’ ’em banged up’d make you hurt.

Love, if I had me wish come true, I’d have never set up as a burglar

But stayed on the dole as all modern-day breadwinners do.

I reckon a wife’d be proud of a man who don’t have to get her to perjure

Herself on the stand, the way I had to make you.

Sweetheart, do this thing for me; forgive these few misdemeanours,

Love me ’cos of me failings — no scratch that, in spite.

I promise I’ll iron me own shirts and have a go mendin’ the vacuum cleaner

Just as long as you let me back in for me conjugal rights.

Adrian Fry

No. 2486: Ides of March

You are invited to provide a retrospective verse comment from the other world on the assassination by Caesar or one of the conspirators. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to Competition No. 2486 by 15 March.

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 2483 you were invited to supply a poem in which a husband or wife apologises for a lifetime of misbehaviour.