A Few More Limericks

I was racing my steed round the Crescent,
When I knocked down a ragged old peasant;
He writhed in the mud,
Then he spat out some blood —
His manners, in short, were unpleasant.


We’ve enacted a strict moratorium
On crackpot proposals for thorium:
If authors submit ‘em,
We’ll simply commit ‘em
To the care of the new sanatorium.


That instrument known as the Dow
Is shortly to reach forty thou.
The masses and I
In unison cry:
“How is it I don’t have a cow?”


Blossoms bloom, we’re in love, and it’s Spring!
How delightful, you’re going to sing!
You’re as sweet as a flower,
Yet I’m suddenly sour
When you say, “And now something by Sting. . .”


I signed in a drunkenly way
With an outfit that tests DNA:
They sent me a kit,
So I sent them some spit—
And now I’m the Lord of Biscay.


King Herod was no great theologist
And even a worse angelologist:
He heard some strange things
About beings with wings,
Then he sent for his court ornithologist.

More of My Limericks

The crew of the famous Thor Heyerdahl
Lamented, "We're just far too teyerdahl
Why on earth did you hire us?
We can't sail a papyrus!"
But he shouted, "Shut up, or you're feyerdahl!"


There once was a man from Prestatyn
Who plagiarized poems in Latin.
Titled In Nocti-bus
Albo Serico— thus
Was his rip-off of “Nights in White Satin.”


Paul Gaugin declared to his sweetie,
“Oh, why did I come to Tahiti?
I'd rather reside
On the Lower East Side
And devote my best years to graffiti.”


Said X, a Cartesian coordinate,
"Oh, Y, damn this graph! We're both boredinate.
Another dimension
Would break up the tension,
But we don’t have a way of affordinate!"


There once was a nurse with a lamp
Who wandered all over the camp.
Though it gave little light,
She remarked: “That’s all right—
It will look fucking great on my stamp.”


There once was a learned tomato
Who lectured on Dante and Plato.
All the shoppers said, "Gee!
You should be on TV—
What a waste teaching greens and potato!"

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.

Some More of My Limericks

I once knew a man who was poor
Who used to sell dogs door to door.
If you asked, "Is this legal?"
He would slip you a beagle,
Saying, "Gift for your wife – say no more!"


There is nothing amiss in a nude
When her form’s art historically viewed
In a Klimt or Picasso,
But in clubs in El Paso,
There's a form of a miss we’d exclude.


The teacher of Andrew McKay
Said, “Boy, there’s a spot in your eye!
The doctor, no doubt,
Must dig the thing out,”
Which made that poor spot start to cry.
“To the office,” she yelled, “You must fly,”
To which Andrew was bound to comply,
But pretty nurse Finkle
Said, “It’s only a twinkle,
And you’ll lose it, alas, by and by.”


There once was a glass of red wine
That mused, "Must all mortal men dine?
When we’re finally smashed,
Are our hopes simply dashed?
Are we raised again in the divine?"


A lover lamenting cruel fate
Once leapt from the Empire State
Due to heartless young Pam,
Who did not give a damn,
Though her brothers both thought it was great.

More of My Limericks

A charming romantic named Bing
Sought to fly like a bird on the wing,
So he climbed up a steeple,
Which scared all the people,
So they caged him and taught him to sing.


Feeling dizzy, lightheaded and faint?
Then you're either in love or you ain't.
If your heart's not aglow,
To a doctor please go,
For you must have some lesser complaint.


A solipsist aired his contention
To peers at a recent convention.
He cried, “It’s quite clear
That you’re really not here,
But you bastards just don’t pay attention.”


A rather disgruntled young Viking
Found plunder was not to his liking:
When they yelled, “All ashore”
He just threw down his oar
And announced, “I’m not striking, I’m striking”


We think seventy virgins a must
When it comes to rewarding the Just,
But that neighbor we shun
Says it’s seventy-one—
What a shocking example of lust!


There was a collector named Otto,
Who bought an expensive Giotto,
Which he hung on his wall
And would point out to all,
Saying, “Don’t go to auctions when blotto.”

More of My Limericks

If you’re lacking a little good cheer,
Go and tickle a bull in the rear,
For I’m sure that the rumor
That they’ve no sense of humor
Is a product of ignorant fear.


Aloof types are never the sweetest.
It’s clear that avoiding them’s meetest,
So give them the snub,
And apply for my club:
We’re exclusively anti-elitist.


A native of Chalamazug
Once fell overboard from a tug.
He cried, “Ding-dong boller
Doo jango zong zoller,”
Which means, “Glug-glug glug glug-glug glug.”


Speaking anthropocentrically, I
Would prefer that we not search the sky
For quick-witted ETs,
Who’d subdue us with ease,
Till we know what they like in their pie.


See the Moon in the sky as it waxes;
Feel the warm tranquil wind that relaxes;
Turn and give me your smile
On our Paradise Isle;
Say you love your avoider of taxes.


The CAPTCHA's the name for the box
That you have to fill in to outfox
Those machines that send spam
That is linked to some scam
That would swindle you down to your socks.

Some More of My Old Limericks

An obsessive young lady named Fong
Would constantly bang on a gong;
Said her doctor, “I find
You’ve an unbalanced mind—
You should strive for more ding and less dong.”


In the village of Jingamafloo,
They don’t look at the world like we do:
When a gentleman dies
His dear wife shouts, “Surprise!
Now we’ll all get a little more stew.”


How to spell the potato has tried
Many minds, sometimes mine, I’ll confide.
Though it might have an eye,
There’s no E – don’t ask why!
Not until it’s been baked, boiled or fried.


If a thought that’s been thought has been “thunk”
Have those dreams that we’ve sought all been “sunk”?
Should “we ought” be “we unk”?
Can what’s fought be what’s “funk”?
And those stocks that we bought, were they “bunk”?


There once was a yogi who said,
“I can see I should never have wed:
Our carnal relations
Only cause lamentations—
I suspect it’s the nails in the bed.”


Assisting a suicide’s fate
Is a practice all faiths seem to hate:
Is God, the Creator,
Some prickly Head Waiter,
Who freaks if you send back your plate?

More of My Old Limericks

I've no fear of the mean streets of Skokie —
I'm adept at concealed karaoke:
If I'm under attack,
There's a switch that I whack —
Then it blares out a loud “Hokey Pokey".


Is Algebra fruitless endeavor?
It seems they’ve been trying for ever
To find x, y, and z
And it’s quite clear to me:
If they’ve not found them yet then they'll never.


There once was a baby named Sam
Who would never be good for his mam:
His screams were so loud
That he’d draw a small crowd,
Then he’d sell bootlegged booze from his pram.


As for sex education, I’ve wondered
If our school system’s totally blundered,
For the textbooks these days
Just teach two or three ways—
While Norwegians learn more than five hundred.


There once was a man of Nepal
Who declared, "I have seen through it all.
I shall sit on my bum
And not even chew gum
And shall think and do nothing at all."


One’s stance on the flinging of feces
Is likely to hinge on one’s species,
The strength of one’s arm,
One’s urge to do harm,
And whether one rents, owns or leases.

More of My Old Limericks

 

The jester of Amalek's dead.
The Israelites chopped off his head.
His last witty thing
Was to point at the king:
"That's Saul, folks!" — the last words he said.


There once was a man of great wealth
Who was told, “This will not bring you health.”
He was told it a lot,
So he had the man shot,
And that pretty much speaks for itself.


Now, listen up all of you haters,
And I’ll give you the word about craters:
They are holes that are strewn
On the face of the Moon --
Well at least that’s the meat and potaters.


There once was a gourmand named Finney
Who hated to see people skinny,
Which I think best explains
Why he left his remains
To a cannibal tribe in New Guinea.


There once was a baby named Lou
And he grew and he grew and he grew,
And he grew and he grew,
And he grew and he grew,
But he stopped when he reached six foot two.


There are three hundred girls in distress
In a basement at USPS,
Where the postmaster hides
All the mail-order brides
Who were lacking a proper address.

More of My Old Limericks

 

There was a young fellow of Putney
Who would eat only lentils and chutney.
He chose to migrate
To an Indian state,
But he died there of terrible glutney.

 

It took a few plates of titanium
To patch up that crack in my cranium.
That’s the danger you court
With a cocky retort
To a wife with a potted geranium.

 

An ambitious young fellow named Matt
Tried to parachute using his hat.
Folks below looked so small,
As he started to fall,
Then got bigger and bigger and SPLAT!

 

An unscrupulous bird is the stork:
He dines with no knife and no fork;
No agency vets
All those newborns he gets,
And when asked where they’re from, he won’t tork.

 

There was a young lady of Clapham
Who had too many kids and would slap ‘em,
Till the council said, “Cease!”
Now she calls the police
And they come round with tasers and zap ‘em.

 

What a limerick is in a crunch
Is a bit like a loony’s light lunch;
Though it briefly delights,
It’s just four nutty bites,
Swallowed down with a ludicrous punch

Monday Limericks -- A Few I Wrote a While Ago

I'm delighted to say that I've mastered

The appropriate usage of "bastard":

It's a person who's bred

By a pair who weren't wed,

But were too much in love—or too plastered.

 

If a lizard or worm's in a spot,

Then self-amputation's its lot.

For they're both quite autotomous,

But the great hippopotamus,

Though he rhymes,

To be honest,

Is not.

 

“Lord, we finally got into Canaan,

But we think you should do some explanaan.

Forty years isn’t funny:

Where’s the milk? Where’s the honey?

Where’s the benefits promised in trainaan?”

 

“I talk,” claimed a linguist named Hamill

“With every species of mammal”

When asked for a reference

He said, “What’s your preference?

My mother-in-law, or my camel?”

 

It is said that Dame Julian of Norwich

Was tempted to sin by her porwich.

At breakfast one day,

She yelled, “Devils, away!”

Then she locked all her oats up in storwich.