Tuesday, April 24, 2018

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

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