To write an ode is her intent,        

But inspiration, heaven sent        

To those of a poetic bent,          

Has quite forgotten where she lives; 

An oversight that always gives   

A chance to better poets than she        

To craft their entries, while she sighs      

And wonders why she even tries.            

Her pen is chewed beyond repair  

And nothing beckons but despair.

Her friends evoke both place and time 

In part or para or half- rhyme. 

She knows their poems can’t fail to chime

With any judge of modern verse. 

That’s not her style, for she is cursed 

With love for both full rhyme and metre

And something strongish by the litre

To drown her sorrows when they beat her.

Although my views on modern poetry ruled this out for first place, adjudicator Carole Bromley praised it highly for its wit and tight structure.