Athletes
All our arms were beginning to ache
As we strained at the oars on the lake,
But we felt it too petty
To mention the jetty
Still dragging along in our wake.
A nude skydiver sliced the chill air
As it tousled his long golden hair.
Through that airy blue ocean
He sighed with emotion,
‘Oh, bollocks, my chute’s still up there!’
A ballplayer played in Bavaria
Her games under weeping wisteria.
In the soft-scented shade
Of her terrace she played
With the balls of the men in her area.
In the contest, Miss Archer’s fine bow
Helped her humble her masculine foe.
It was not just the score
That he looked silly for
But the arrow she’d lodged in his toe.
There once was a gymnast named Brett
Who insisted, ‘Now, Brenda, don’t fret.
It’s safe, this position
We’re in for coition!’
They haven’t untangled them yet.
A talented fencer called Coyle
Once displayed epic skill with his foil.
Deftly thrusting with care
And cool consummate flare,
He’d soon lanced his opponent’s ninth boil.
A retired Irish swimmer from Ennis
Once thought about switching to tennis,
Though streetwalking, too,
Seemed a good thing to do,
So she’s cruising canals now in Venice.
In his world-record bid, Ally failed,
Despite the great height that he sailed,
For the pole-vaulting rules
Are enforced by darn fools
Who disqualify those who’re impaled.
Nervous Neville was frightened of falls,
And he shook at the thought of bad calls,
And of missing, through nerves,
Even one of the serves,
For, of course, he had only two balls.
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I have chosen to introduce a tennis player who is nervous both when he is receiving a modern zillion-mile-an-hour serve from his opponent, and when he is similarly serving to his opponent. You should try to visualise both events independently.
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There was a boy-wonder from Grath
Who embraced the Olympian path.
He swam three times per day
Across four miles of bay,
And then drowned at age five in his bath.
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This limerick is inspired by the venerable tradition of causing offence in the last line. Before contacting the Child Protection Agency, the reader is urged to see my baby and awe limericks in a fair-minded attempt to make a more accurate assessment of my apparent depravity.
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A karate professional’s kick
Was inept, yet impressively quick.
His volunteer’s arm
Having come to some harm,
The abuser said, ‘Pal, you’re a brick!’
Two floozies who ran on Manhattan’s
Mixed relay team grasped the wrong batons.
When they reached back and grabbed,
The male members they nabbed
Rose at once to this challenge from slatterns.
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American readers should note that although this shameless event occurred on their shores, I am English and pronounce 'baton' as BAT-uhn. I have also used the derogatory term 'slattern', pronounced SLAT-uhn, which may not be well known across the Atlantic. A slattern is a women of deeply dubious character, which a serious work such as mine should perhaps not delve into too deeply.
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El Pedro, that mincing old matador,
Bolts either thru thees or thru thatador.
He’s much less ambitious
When bulls are real vicious,
And doesn’t waste time on the latador.
Poor Pete in the British Grand Prix,
Lost his lead and his pride to car thrix,
For he’d left it to dangle
(His pride) at an angle
While wangling a way to pass wix.
On the slopes of the French Pyrenees,
Jack did six spinning back-flips with ease.
To the chilled, cheering crowd,
He just sniffed, ‘I’m not proud,
For my jump was made good by a sneeze.’
After three had departed the ranks,
‘Bullet Boob’ quickly paid up with thanks
To the starter and said,
‘Well, the fastest are dead,
So perhaps you should switch back to blanks.’
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Bullet Bob Hayes was considered the world's fastest sprinter after winning the 100 metre gold medal in the 1964 Tokyo Olympics against seven other finalists. ‘Bullet Boob’ Jayes was considered the world's nastiest sprinter after winning the 100 metre bronze medal in the 1984 Blackpool Poultry Industry Invitational against four surviving finalists.
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There was a great sprinter named Hall
Who found stopping the hardest of all,
Till one terrible day
He got carried away
On a barrow with bits of brick wall.
An accomplished high-climber faced thirst
And his lungs, starved of air, nearly burst.
With one painful last drag,
He surmounted that crag,
But nine Girl Guides had reached the top first.
In the hammer event, a guy’s throw
Gave his fans a fine aerial show.
His shrill screams rent the air
As it howled through his hair,
But the tosser just wouldn’t let go.
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This verse should not, I insist, be seen as a below-the-belt personal attack on an undeserving ill-fated hammer-thrower. In Britain ‘tosser’ is slang for a stupid person, which this hammer-tossing tosser, last seen streaking over Oxford on his way to a hammering at reentry, undoubtedly was.
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