Limericks and such composed on my daily dog walks: verses 701-750

Note: Some of these verses lean left. If you lean right (which is completely cool, of course), you may not be totally happy with this site. Back to home page Links to other doggy-walking verse pages
701. Halloween limericks / verses a. This Halloween, as winds whip the trees,I'm filled with a deep and uneasy unease,as ghosts, gremlins, and gnomes,make unannounced visits to strangers' homes,with the express purpose of spreading their spooky disease.
b. It's again nearly Halloween.Lit-up pumpkins are everywhere to be seen.And up here, zombies and witchesand creepy ghouls with red, sown-up stitchesare performing a spooky balcony scene. c. There once was a rich woman from Montreal,who decided to throw a big Halloween ballat a kid in the streetwith no shoes on his feetwho didn't even know how to dance at all.
702. These are the days of frosty rime and icicle noses, *when many a mom ventures outside in woolen pantyhoses,and kids on skatesbreak arms at very high rates,while many a dad sits warmly by the fire and dozes.* Play on the song title “These are the days of wine and roses.”
703. You should never serve watermelonto any convicted felon,because they might take the seeds of the fruitand aim it at the guards and shoot,and as to the consequences of that, there just ain't no tellin'.
704. If you find something in a poem that doesn't make sense,please don't take that to mean that you're dense.It might just as well bethat you're being confronted with a bunch of malarky,otherwise known as poetic pretense.
705. I accidently went to where I wasn't going,and learned what I had no way of knowing,like, for example, where the nothing isthat I thought had stopped upon my first analyses,but which I now see is forever ongoing.
706. I don't ever want to live in Japan.That place can rattle like a lid on a boiling copper pan.And then frightened people go darting aroundamong cracking buildings, praying not be drownedby a towering tsunami ─ Neptune's seaweed-slinging hit man.
707. Thirteen ways of imagining your ass Imagine a Chihuly figurine in glass.*Imagine the colors white and brass.Imagine a thoroughfare, not an overpass.Imagine a nice-size crack, not a huge crevasse.Imagine a scent, not of noble gas, but of sassafras.Imagine two hemispheres of equal atomic mass.Imagine an invisible sign that says, "No trespass." Imagine the impression it leaves in leaves of grass. Imagine its bottoms-up pizzazz.Imagine the jiggling like syncopated jazz.Imagine its rhythmic razzmatazz.Imagine the intrinsic value of so precious an ass.Imagine the ultimate happiness that it could bring to pass.* Play on Wallace Steven’s poem “Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird.”
708. It's Sunday morning, and I didn't go to church.My wife says by doing so I leave the Lord in the lurch.I say it's not true, cuz working in the yard around ten with Kevin,I surely saw the Lord smile down on us from heaven,with a host of angels surrounding his gold-bedecked perch.
709. We kissed in Act 1, Scene 4,and then I didn't get to see her anymore.I think the dramatist must've forgotten to writewhat she and I were supposed to be doing that night,which, with this dramatist, has happened plenty-a times before.
710. "Do you think I’m still pretty?""You look exactly as you did when you were thirty.""You claimed I was pretty then ─but these days, I expect honesty from men.Today, I'm forty years past thirty ─do you think I'm still pretty?
711. You don't know me, but I wrote a poem about you,about when I saw you at the bus stop last Friday, at about quarter past two.I wrote it because what I saw in your beingevery poet dreams about seeing ─a person's red and blue ─ soaking right through.
712. Driving around in her Hyundai Sonata,listening to a sacred, Bach cantata,she turned on the overhead light,and said, “You know what I'm hankering for tonight?”“No.” “Your saucy, twelve-inch enchilada.”
713. When babies are conceived with such alacrity around the clock,I wonder how God can decide so quickly who gets a little pussy and who gets a little cock.Yeah, I know! It's all about xx and xy.But what if God screws up and gives a little extra x to a guy?You say that would never happen. Can you explain why?
714. If I ever was a hero, I woulda been Byronic, but I certainly was not, cuz I've only every been a minor player in a five-line poem plot.
715. A working girl from windy Winnipeg,had Aesop’s goose tattooed inside of her leg.And for the right price,and if you asked her real nice,she'd let you watch that goose lay the golden egg.
716. I just know my dog's gonna cause me to die,as every day, we walk along a busy street with cars speeding by.Zanily, he keeps pulling me to the left and then to the right,causing me to continually crisscross the street with limited sight.I just know one of these days, it's all gonna go awry.
717. She asked me, "Are you tuned for touch"?I said, "Pardon me?""Oh! You must not watch TV very much.There's a commercial that asks, 'Are you tuned for touch.'""I? No, not that much. I think I'm too Catholic ─ or perhaps too Dutch."
718. Said the angel, sitting on my right shoulder,"I'm still here, even though you've gotten so very much older ─but you still need me, right?"I said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah! Stay right there ─don't you be thinking of going anywhere ─not till the good Lord elects to turns off all of my light."
719. If a doctor told me I was soon gonna die,I wouldn't cry, nor ask God why.I'd just say, "What the fuck!This is some shitty, rotten luck!What can I do to make this cup pass me by? ** Play on Matthew 26:39
720. I'm the master of time and fate.So, I don't like it when midnight is late.And I say to the dawn, "If by noon you're not gone,You’re gonna see me get pretty irate."
721. I'm the vicar of Vakkar.I love to click her and clack her ─the electric bell in the domeof my miniature chapel at home ─though each time that I whack her, she loses a bit more of her lacquer.
722. If you tell me that's a real Van Gogh,I might as well believe you, cuz ─ hell ─ what do I know? But if it's not a real Van Gogh,what I would like to know,is why the hell would you even tell me so?
723. You say you got lost in the Waste Land. *That's pretty easy to understand.The Waste Land's not for the common reader.It's full of irregular meter,and Eliot's allusions tend to get way out of hand.* Play on the poem “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot
724. "Hi, the hospital invited us here to try to make you laugh,and we're presenting this show today totally on the behalfof the king of the big comedy showwho, during the last century, was the first one, you know,that, for a laugh, would cut a beautiful young lady completely in half."
725. I'm not much for introspection.I'm not much for deep self-reflection.Because if I plumbed the depth of my mind and foundthere wasn't a whole lot of gray matter around,I might have to write my very own ode to dejection.
726. Here, take this limerick, take it for free.And see if you can write it better than me.You’re so godamn good at belittling ─ telling me I'm no better than fair to middling ─even though in English, I have a fucking master's degree!
727. If I were to die, there would no longer beanyone in the entire world quite like me.Now for me, I wouldn't really care.But for people still compelled to live here ─that would be a rather sad reality.
728. Last night, I heard voices in the back of my mind,the voices of people you just known aren't kind.I got so scared,I hid in the closet and prayed to be spared.And then I heard someone declare, "I don't think he's here ─his filthy kind are always the hardest to find."
729. A splashy gender guess, all prinked in pink ─obviously not caring what we mall goers think.They prance through the chattering crowd, enveloped in pride,and with a wry smile, cast all who cast aspersions blasély aside,as they head for the entrance to the ice-skating rink,where someone awaits them ─ with a kiss and a drink.
730. We’re all destined to play that one desperate part ─aging with grace into a gray-haired old fart ─with all those juices flowing,and sometimes not even knowingwhen we’re busily creating pieces of fluid abstract art.
731. She could count from one to ten,and already recite the alphabet from “a” to “n.”But she was still much too youngto have to wait half the night longfor mommy to come home again.
732. You knows how it iswhen cola loses its fizz?That's kinda what happened here.And what can I say but, "Sorry, my dear?"I kinda feel like I've flunked a pop quiz.
733. Perhaps, what the carrion crow perceives,peering down, as rainwater drip-drips from the red roof's high eaves,is that bedraggled Barbie and her three-legged horse,lying there abandoned to suffer, perforce,the brown-orange decay of autumn's wet, riotous leaves.
734. I've taken myself out of the equation,basically, just out of total frustration.I'm tired of x conspiring with yto inflate its value when z is nearby,then reducing it again for every other occasion ─ perhaps, such fraud? ─ or tax evasion?
735. In my poems, it's often just the silliness of it.Get that, and you get the frilliness of it ─verses of random soundjust boomeranging aroundthe valleyness and hilliness of it.
736. To friends and kin, I was a living legendtill I fell and struck my head.Doctors couldn't save me ─ and I was glad,cuz I was enjoying being dead.
737. Along the shore of the river Lethe, I'm told,the ancients quite often forget that their old.And then they jump in the water like spring chickens,and try to make love like the dickens,despite being hindered by their every crease and every fold.
738. I wish I could go with you tonight,to that place where we wouldn't need any lightto reveal what we'd be revealing,and what we'd have no way of concealingfrom our angel, our devil, or our sprite.
739. I'd dance with the devil, if I had to,and all his fiendish pals, I'd be glad to,if that would mean that the world’s manywould give love to those in the world who never get any,and give a little love to my dad too.
740. Yeah, I realize my poetic oeuvre contains a fair bit of junk.But you know what? Even God created something called a skunk.In the works of all unparalleled thinkers,you can expect to find quite a few genuine stinkers ─most poems never attain great heights ─ most just immediately go kerplunk.
741. She's always in so much pain,that it seems hopeless and insane.I have no idea how she keeps on going.If it were I, I wouldn't helplessly stand by.I'd long ago have been on the river Styx helping Charon with the rowing.
742. When I got so sick of the wayshe always had something nasty to say,I pleaded with my pop,to take her back to the shopand recircuited her, so that at least once a day,she'd also have something nice to say.
743. When I try to wax poetic,it's not very esthetic ─the words come out crumpled and lack any grace.And the further I am from where I begun,the more obvious is the damage I've done,having come up with nothing but hackneyed phrases and corny clichés.
744. My lady is worth her weight in gold,so precious, she could never be sold.But then the other day, a guy asked if he could buy her,on the provision that he'd first be allowed to try her.No need to tell you what ugly scene then did unfold.
745. I'm a quandary about a poem that came pretty damn cheap.Should I go ahead and toss it, or is it still good enough to keep?You'd think since it came this easy and is only five lines long ─ just toss the damn thing and wait for others to come along!But will they? That’s the question that sometimes disturbs my sleep.
746. What also constitutes artis the capturing an object,like, for example, an exploding fart ─and to give it a shape and an essenceit didn't have at its start.
747. Girl from Peru limericks / versea. There once was a girl from Peruwho set no limits to what you could do.But if you wanted to tickle,you had to use your own pickle,or she'd call the cops on you.
b. Hi, I’m the girl from Peru.And I’ve decided to write a limerick, too.So, here’s to all of you jerks,who tried to make fun of all of my little quirks.I wish you a deep and a heartfelt "fuck you!”
748. The lady waves at me from her car every day.Or rather ─ waves at my dog, I'd say.The dog gets all the attention ─I hardly get any mention.But hasn't it always been that way?
749. I have a pen that doesn't work worth a damn.During lunch, I use it to ladle out the last bits of strawberry jam.Or to jab some creepy little girls,sitting behind me playing with their blond, little curls,who then whirl around and yell at me who do I think I am.
750. See that word with the double underline?I don't think that word is mine.I think it was inserted by a critic,who hails from Chappaquiddick,who can never accept that a poem of mine is just fine.
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