Some More of My Limericks

There was once a black widow named Janet
Who buried twelve husbands in granite.
When asked how she pled,
She giggled and said:
“Well, it can’t be coincidence, can it?”


Self-sacrifice took Mr. Morehouse
From luxury’s lap to the poorhouse,
But his last, greatest trial,
Was to give up denial—
He’s a pianist now in a whorehouse.


Two earthworms met up underground;
Said one, “This whole lifestyle’s unsound,
Our annelid phylum
Could use an asylum”—
Those radicals, how they expound!


S.O.Bs like to buy SUVs,
But they drive them however they please:
If we get in their way,
We end up DOA,
And that really POs EMTs.


Though you don’t know quite why or quite what,
You are drawn by this feeling you’ve got.
That’s what’s called “intuition”:
A compelling suspicion
That your mind has a plan you do not.


We pros play the best golf we can
But still there are flukes we don’t plan:
The fluffed bump and run,
The freak hole in one,
And when the mishit hits the fan.