Wordsworth

Tales tall and true were received for this week’s challenge, which invited readers to submit a poem about a relative.

John Mills of Gebbies Valley writes:

He doesn’t visit often, does he?/ Mem’ry of him’s rather fuzzy,/Fairly loud,/Never cowed,/Our bossy, glossy, Aussie cuzzie. From Hamilton’s Barbara Lawson: Aunt Muriel could throw a pot,/Her frocks were made from curtains./Her curries were almighty hot,/Her sanity uncertain.

From Clive Blake of Kerikeri: My mother was the world’s worst cook/I was lucky to survive/I owe my life to frozen chips/And Betty Crocker pies. Wellington’s Sybil Gregson: My wonderful aunt Ann Marie/Said, ”I’m getting on, you’ll agree./ No need to behave./I’m not a wage slave./I rejoice in my age, for I’m free.”

Karori’s Poppy Sinclair: My mother’s great uncle Clive,/Was wanted, dead or alive./He stowed away on a ship/And at the end of the trip/Found Godzone a safe place to survive. Bay of Plenty’s David Wort: Uncle Ken’s body is lean, mean and hard/Inside its protective coating of lard;/Developed, you see, by a life in the water/Just like a fur seal, only ginger and shorter./He hunts snapper and cray, moki and flounder/In fact it’s a miracle that Kenneth’s not rounder.

But a questionable account from Barry Woods of Waiheke Island is this week’s winner: When dear Aunt Bella tripped and fell/Right off the Cook Strait ferry/ The captain promptly blamed the swell/But I just blamed the sherry.

For the next contest, write a fourline verse for a new national anthem. Using a similar tune to God Defend

New Zealand is optional. Entries, for the prize below, close at noon on Thursday, October 27.