LIMERICKS

Making pancakes is a ritual I've performed almost every Sunday breakfast for the last forty years.  "Papa's Perfect Pancakes" they've come to be called, and last Sunday, idly tossing pancake number 12000, my thoughts strayed to other breakfast recipes I make, namely porridge.  What alliterative potential might it too have?  Papa’s Perfect Porridge seemed a tad pretentious.  “Something more self-deprecating, perhaps? I know!  A limerick! Gosh! Porridge... porridge. What rhymes with porridge?”

Craig has reminded me that limericks are 'often humorous, sometimes obscene'.  I would add that the first line usually includes the name of a person, or place, and last Sunday the only place name I could think of that rhymes with porridge was Norwich.   Accordingly (with some stresses in italics, to help you if the meter isn’t always obvious) I came up with -

There was an old geezer from Norwich

Who learned in his spare time to forwich

For mushrooms in season 

And that was the reason

In autumn he didn't eat porwich.

Seduced by such a quick return from a trifling investment in effort, I launched into a few more.  Irresistibly attracted to the disreputable, I soon discovered the limerick is the ideal vehicle with which to caricature your friends and, well, anyone.  It can be woven into any outrageous fiction the bare bones of truth suggest!

And so, in fairly short order, (and without apology, because the rude, or sensational bits are fictionalized) I came up with -  

My long standing friend David Jones,

Complaining of softening bones,

Defied his paralys--is,

Took six Cialis,

And now has gigantic cojones!

*****

Our lunatic neighbor, the ____,

Who declared our bamboo an affront,

Aptly took her own life

When she fell on her knife

While destroying our plants out in front.

*****

A successful wine-seller called Lester,

Known by all as a kind-hearted jester,

Was rebuked by his maid,

That she’d never got laid,

And he’d made no attempt to molest her. 

*****

An art connoisseur known as Craig,

Whose whereabouts had become vague,

Said New York was a curse,

While Manila was worse,

And he loathed Boracay like the plague.

*****

An artistic eccentric named Pinder

While firing a sculpture with tinder

Was sidetracked by Ella,

The randy old fella,

And his project was burned to a cinder.

***** 

A conspiracy theorist called Paul

Shouted out “For a building to fall

Without any resistance

It must have assistance!”

Retorted his friends “Not at all!”

So this started an internet brawl

With arguments long, short, and tall

And the Tweets more absurd

With each four letter word

Until one said ‘He’s right after all!”

Chimed in Craig at this point “That was moi!

Widely known for my…je ne sais quoi.

Yes, I’ll stand by my friend

To the bitterest end

And as the French say it 'Voila!’"

*****

To pause for breath here is no crime.

But I now can’t stop thinking in rhyme!

And what makes matters worse

(In fact it’s a curse),

I've burned all my pancakes this time! 

*****

(With thanks to Craig for ‘Debra’/’webra’ )

I once knew a girl, name o’ Debra,

Was exceedingly fond of Ginebra.

And I found our first night   

She was so godamn tight    

I was trapped like a fly in a webra!

*****

(And a contribution from Lester!)

There was a ham actor, named Paul,

Who would clumsily stumble and fall,

He thought he could crack it

If he learned not to wack it,

And now he’s a star at the mall!

Now that I have irretrievably lowered the tone of this blog, further original contributions are encouraged, in the comments section, below. They must be limericks, in which form they must both rhyme, and, within limits suggested by the above, scan!  All entries will be moderated by a panel of judges, composed of – moi!

Pablo