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Competition No 3796

Set by Margaret Rogers, 25 August

Socially, August is "this most problematic of months", wrote Andrew Martin on 11 August. We asked for verses.

Report by Ms de Meaner

As usual, the entrants divided into those who tried to write their own and those who pinched a star poet (Keats, Eliot) to base their thoughts upon. £20 to the winners; D A Prince also gets the vouchers.

Dear August, the month which has no itch to scratch,

Like a stray cat without any fleas on,

Like a pirate sans parrot, sans crutch, and sans patch,

You are really the sensible season.

What have you got but Bank Holiday queues,

And an outbreak of lager-loud loafers,

Yesteryear's footballers hogging the news,

And ads for some sad-looking sofas?

You should be Sexember, and horny as hell,

With a rich reputation for lust:

But because of the Caesars, you don't ring a bell.

You're the month in which no one is fussed.

Oh August, you've gone, and the evenings draw in,

And the government couldn't be glummer -

Now there are scandals for spiders to spin.

We promise to praise you next summer.

Bill Greenwell

August is the slackest month, breeding

Serendipitous stories out of the newsdeserts, mixing

Distant bombblasts with interminable inquiries, stirring

Traffic cones with buckling rails.

Summer kept us cold, then hot, covering

Earth in new diseases, feeding

Anxieties that sell newspapers.

Summer surprised us, - again - coming out of the headlines

With a shower of weatherchangebabble; we stopped in Starbucks

And drank three Frappuccinos,

Unashamedly animadverted, phew, what a scorcher.

Hasta la vista, Senor Beckham, echt espanol.

And Blair's children, staying with the Archvirgin,

Went out on pedaloes,

And they were frightened, because the

Paparazzi gave Euan a fifty-pound note

To do something lewd.

They said, Oi, Euan, moon for us! And down they went.

In the sea, there you feel free.

I read all the tabloids and fear death by drowning.

Josh Ekroy

Season of mists and melanomas, thou

Close friend of the carcinogenic sun

Who, absent, for so long lamented, now

Brings out the wasps and worst in everyone.

And in the office it's as hot as hell -

Where are the electric fans? Aye, where are they?

Think not of them, they're all in Personnel.

Nor seek to know why tempers start to fray

And staplers fly, and fax machines are smashed,

And photocopiers kicked and cupboards trashed.

My head aches, and a drowsy numbness brings -

O soothest sleep! If so it please thee, close,

In the Strategic Planning Group, my willing eyes . . .

And who hath broke the air-conditioning?

And where's the admin staff? Aye, where are they?

Think not of them, they both phoned in to say -

Betty is "sick", Julie "sick" - that is all

Ye know at work, and all ye need to know.

David Silverman

My wife and I have asked a crowd of . . . what's

The point? The summer's simmering, and it's hot

Enough to fry a pig's arse, friend,

And there's no sign of end.

The barbie stinks, the sausages are charred,

And so, Dear Kev and Julie, it's so hard . . .

A rotten month; the partying types have flown,

And all that's left are backyard barbies, drinking

Warm Aussie Chardonnay, and thinking:

On Monday Jan and Phil's, on Tuesday Gary's,

Thursday it's Mexican at Liz and Harry's,

And trying not to eructate or groan.

Only the sad spend August neighbourly

With seeing too much local company.

And standing round being social only gains

More trouble for your piles and varicose veins.

Another burger do - to which you'd like to say

(Will you and yours . . . ?) - Fuck off. No bloody way.

D A Prince

No 3799 Set by John Crick

Advertising gets everywhere these days. Rewrite an extract from a famous novel or play with appropriate product placement - the more the better.

Max 200 words by 26 September. E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk

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