Given it’s the dog days of summer, with nowt on the telly, give or take some splashing, running and jumping, time to appreciate the full literary talents of this august site, here’s an idea: As a way of denoting our origins, or current placements, all are invited to pen a pome, preferably in that highest of the canon, the limerick. Here’s mine, from Lichfield.
“There was an old man of Lich,
whose language was arcane and kitsch.
His meter was torrid.
his language was florid,
in song, haiku or triptych.”
P.S. So why the song? Kudos to the first to comment.
There was a young blogger of Essex
Whose poems adhered to strict ethics.
Though he thought them profound
Other readers had found
His verses were trusty emetics
There were several young Afterword lurkers
At posting and comments all shirkers
Said Junior Wells
Come out of your shells
You might as well all be in burkas
Guess who didn’t read the OP properly.
An estuarine fellow called Mikey
Exclaimed with an oath, blimmin’ crikey
If you want to offend
A bloke from Southend
You could call him a dodgy old pikey
Di’mond!
Not 100% certain, but I thinks originates from Spike Milliagan.
I have always loved this.
There was a young man from Dundee
who was stung on the neck by a wasp
When asked if it hurt
He said “Not very much
It can do it again if it likes”
There once was a fellow from Lancs
Who you might think was thick as two planks
He’d a terrible time
For his words wouldn’t rhyme
As his mind was a series of empty spaces.
there was a young man from York
who fancied a girl called Bjork
he said “o what a mess
I’ve ruined your yellow dress
better call mindy and mork
There was a fella called Bri
Posts of every kind he would try
But inventing the wheel
Wasn’t such a big deal
The inventor of the brake was the guy
(Not Unnoticed)
Not meant maliciously. I do enjoy your posts BC – it’s just there are so many!
I can’t help myself,Sewer. What with the time of day at my time of day it is so frustrating that almost everyone is asleep.
You need more Canadians. Plenty of Aussies to talk to down here in the Blighty downtime, mornings basically.
There was a small lady from Stockholm
Who could speed-read her way through a rock tome
And hear something groovy
While watching a movie
That mad rock and roll ’round the clock gnome
There was a young lass from Nantucket,
…hang on, that’s the wrong one.
There once was a man from Leeds
Who swallowed a package of seeds.
Great tufts of grass
Sprouted out of his ass
and his balls were covered in weeds!
This is one from the great David Niven’s autobiography ‘The Moon’s a Baloon.’
A middle aged burgher from Bonn
Walked the streets with nothing on
He said “I’m just an old Goth”
With a black leather loincloth
It’s a merciful release in this dominion
Are most of these from folk whose english is not a first language? Impressed if disappointed by the indigenous.
In which case, I think I might pretend to be a non-native speaker.
Where are the rude ones?
There was a copper from Crewe Junction
Whose prick just wouldn’t function
So for years of his life
he fooled his wife
with snot on the end of his truncheon
There was a young man from Leith
Who circumsised people with his teeth
When asked why
He said with a sigh
I only do it for the cheese underneath
There was a grumpy git from Reading
And you could tell where the conversation was heading
He spent a long time
Trying to find a rhyme
Stiff Little Fingers