I stopped at five limericks. Allpoetry.com had a little contest so I entered with spontaneously composed verse. All my poems are really spur of the moment offspring.These are the 8th and 9th entries for April. The pressure is on to keep writing poems so my novel is on the back burner!
I really don’t care what the world thinks,
And Brexit may happen or not.
I think I’m weaving this poem
By eating a brush in a rush,
But listen, for it’s really not rot.
If it pours out of buckets, that old German rain,
While the four-legged creatures pour down once again,
The monkey may flea me,
But all is in butter
Let life be enjoyed in full trains.
There was an old woman, a poet?
Wrote limericks and did not know it,
But looked round the bend
For an adequate end.
Her condition might be ammocoete!
Wrote limericks and did not know it,
But looked round the bend
For an adequate end.
Her condition might be ammocoete!
More limericks
There was an old woman named Hubbard,
Had just a few cups in her cupboard,
If she had a bird,
Of that I have not heard,
For me, she had just simply slubbered.
Had just a few cups in her cupboard,
If she had a bird,
Of that I have not heard,
For me, she had just simply slubbered.
A lady from the land of my fathers,
Is sometimes oblivious of others.
She does her own thing,
Is distinctly left wing.
About disproving looks never bothers.
Is sometimes oblivious of others.
She does her own thing,
Is distinctly left wing.
About disproving looks never bothers.
I never liked running cross-country,
But had the sense not to say bluntly,
That sport is a bore,
Waste of time, nothing more,
I’m the proof, for I still walk quite spruntly.
But had the sense not to say bluntly,
That sport is a bore,
Waste of time, nothing more,
I’m the proof, for I still walk quite spruntly.
There was an old soldier, quite foreign,
Who did not wear tartan or sporran,
But he played the bagpipes
In his T-shirt with stripes,
And on good days could earn the odd florin.
Who did not wear tartan or sporran,
But he played the bagpipes
In his T-shirt with stripes,
And on good days could earn the odd florin.
***
This is my nonsense poem - constructed from German sayings translated literally.
This is my nonsense poem - constructed from German sayings translated literally.
It's sausage to me (Es ist mir Wurst)
I really don’t care what the world thinks,
And Brexit may happen or not.
I think I’m weaving this poem
By eating a brush in a rush,
But listen, for it’s really not rot.
If it pours out of buckets, that old German rain,
While the four-legged creatures pour down once again,
The monkey may flea me,
But all is in butter
Let life be enjoyed in full trains.
