For the record, this limerick is fictitious. (I grew up with poodles, mutts, and a collie, none of which ever participated in dog shows. And I’ve never owned a golden retriever.)
“I’m so proud of our golden retriever.
She’s a multiple ribbon receiver.
She struts proudly at shows
With great gait, well-arched toes;
An achiever and bold ‘eager beaver.'”
Empanadas can be quite delish.
But alas, many ruin that dish
With green olives, whose taste
Lays those meat pies to waste.
I would sooner eat three-week-old fish.
Keeping order’s impossibly hard
When your husband, a hoarder, stands guard
To ensure “priceless” crap’s
Not thrown out while he naps.
So my odds of success? Not one shard!
And odd woman careened and would preen,
As she rattled an old tambourine.
Irksome clatter? Immense!
And her moves made no sense!
So we swiftly skedaddled the scene.
When caught ‘cheating,’ a fellow exclaimed
To his wife, “Hon, I should not be blamed!
Cuz I clearly recall
The arrangement we all
Made last week with the woman you maimed.”
My two blogs are big bullies, alas:
“Write more lim’ricks!” they coax and harass.
If I take a day off,
They will grumble and scoff:
“What’s your problem? You run out of gas?”
A young man who’s employed as a flunky
For a funky, eccentric old junky,
Is often confused
And even bemused
By commands like: “Make things dory-hunky.”
I consider myself a poetry minimalist. And yet, my attempt at responding to the #7SyllableSentence #pinch #prompt, somehow grew into this 40-syllable #limerick:
Please don’t tell me to add just a dash
Or a pinch of some item. That’s rash:
Though my fingers are smaller
Than most, I’m a brawler.
Be precise, or be blamed for my hash.
I dream of a solid night’s sleep,
Unbroken by noise — long and deep;
Unawakened by hourly
Peeing, done dourly.
(And don’t you dare recommend sheep!)
I find learning new words a delight.
But my mind disagrees; it’s a fight!
Seems my crowded old brain
Deems such efforts a strain;
It evicts other words, just for spite.
Since production of pennies is ending,
Is it time for some idiom-mending?
Must the penny be spurned?
Nickel saved, nickel earned?
Dime for thoughts? Is “cute quarter” ascending?
An old man (who just died) was an ass;
Rather nasty and given to sass.
He, alas, wasn’t tactful.
His gibes were impactful.
(NOT packed full — his funeral Mass.)
I wonder just what is the reason
Why spring’s such an ornery season.
First it’s cold, then it’s hot,
Then it’s icy, then not —
Makes me ask whether spring is just teasin’.
Hubby’s cooking is NOT to be missed.
My job’s cleanup; that’s how I assist.
Hone my skills at the stove?
‘Twould be pointless, by Jove,
For my cooking-chops just don’t exist.
I have never been able to whistle.
“So who cares?” you might say in dismissal.
But a gal who can toot
On the oboe and flute
Should be able to whistle a bissel.
Whined a writer, I’m rusty and blocked.
I just can’t get my juices unlocked.
It’s the fault of my muse
Who’s gone AWOL. J’accuse!
Can’t remember the last time we talked.
That magician is handsome and nice.
But I only went out with him twice:
He’s obsessed with The Matrix
And kept doing date tricks.
I HATE tricks, so date him? No dice!
A young fellow scrawled something quite mean
In bright orange, dark red, and lime green.
I must hasten to note
I don’t mind what he wrote.
But that color scheme? Grossly obscene!
“You’re too trusting! Stop being naive!
You’ve been conned. You’re a snap to deceive.
I can tell from one look
That your boyfriend’s a crook.
Your credulity’s hard to believe!”
A fine actress who’d hoped for the lead
In an upcoming film failed to heed
The advice from her spouse,
Who had warned, “Never grouse
At auditions and don’t read on speed!”
Mad Kane (Madeleine Begun Kane) is a writer, musician, and "recovering lawyer." She won the Robert Benchley Society Award For Humor and enjoys writing limericks, song parodies, and current events haiku.
You can email her at madkane@madkane.com, visit her political humor blog, or stop by her home page.