Though most of the verses are mine,
I have tried to bring old ones new shine,
So I’m now in great debt
To dead bards I’ve upset,
And hope that galled ghosts are benign.
Yet perhaps they enjoy the tradition
That tolerates part-repetition.
If a limerick tries
Modern rhymes on for sighs,
It should thrill its old bard’s apparition.
Now if each of these verses was clean,
And bedazzled with shimmery sheen,
Do you think you would read
Through each page and not need
A few smudges of smut in-between?
So the limerick’s not quite a saint,
And it’s often so rude that grans faint.
Yes, at times it acts pure,
Or pretends it’s demure,
But don’t fall for this act, for it ain’t.
(inspired by a classic)
Though lots of my verses are clean,
(Or some grubby grey state inbetween)
They’ll still shock a few
Disapproving folk who
Think the whole sorry lot are obscene.
But there’s truly no way we can cure
Noble souls whose each impulse is pure.
If odd mayhem and vice
Never strike you as nice,
I’m quite sure you’re too pure to endure.
You can tear through my stuff in one sitting,
But with limericks, trust me, it’s fitting
That you savour their flavour
In doses. If braver,
Your head – not your sides – could be splitting.