Many of my limericks are written for special occasions (birthdays, Mother's Day, etc.) and so are often ephemeral and personal. Nonetheless, some are (if I do say so myself) clever and worth re-reading. For instance:
|
As you reach the half-century mark,
Like a tree, you've grown character bark.
You're no longer a sap-
ling; you sway but don't snap,
And each branch gives support to a lark. |
Though the world’s in a worrisome whirl,
You’re my mother, and I’m still your girl.
If this troublesome, boister-
ous world is my oyster,
I am grateful that you’re such a pearl! |
|
|
|
|
Au revoir, fare-thee-well, and adieu.
What a loss we will feel, missing yeu.
But please do stay in touch
(E-mails, phone calls and such).
So good-bye, best of luck! (Oh, beu heu.) |
To be Irish today is in vogue:
Wearing green, speaking blarney in brogue,
Singing "Mother Machree" --
But I'd far rather be
Drinking Guinness with some Irish rogue. |
|
|
|
One year I celebrated National Poetry Month (April) by writing a limerick that related to each day, for the first twenty-six days, working my way through the alphabet to start each verse. Here are the limericks for April 7 and 14:
|
Gorgeous morning. The cardinals sing,
And the grass has the green thrust of spring.
April's calling, but -- gee,
Other calls weigh on me.
Yep, my desk phone is starting to ring. |
Metro Transit has settled the strike.
Adieu, carpool! Farewell to the bike!
But there is some concern
That the riders return --
And the fares, we hope, won't take a hike. |
This on-line project is accepting submissions only partway through the letter F so far, and it already has more than 45,000 limericks. Each limerick goes through a workshopping process and must garner a certain number of approvals before reaching its final approved status. More than 125 of mine have been approved, but there are a couple of people who have produced more than 5,000 each!
|
At the pub, I embarked on a quest:
Just what makes a best bitter the best?
And I learned—what the devil?—
It's the alcohol level.
No one cares how the taste is assessed. |
What a hellhole next door at that spread!
It's those three barking dogs that I dread.
Uh-oh, now I can see
It's just one dog, not three.
If it's Cerberus, I must be dead. |
|
Why, you dirty, hornswoggling galoot!
This land's mine, clear from here to the butte.
Any claim jumper tries
To say otherwise lies.
Thieving varmint! Vamoose or I'll shoot. |
I'm a rat in a trap, but alive.
A big flash: I'm a coachman! And I've
Got a pumpkin on wheels
And a footman who squeals.
Says this wand-wielding dame, "Can you drive?" |
I despise megalithic-themed tours
To each cromlech in Wales that endures.
One more circle of stone
Or a dolmen alone,
And the burial mound will be yours. |
We will cook that French sea captain's goose.
Load the culverin, boys, and let loose.
What a shame that this gun
By 1691
(More or less) will be hardly in use. |
|
