There lived a man named Davie Becker
Who had a great big, giant pecker
He tucked it away
But it wouldn't stay
He's now the town's homewrecker
Trying to find a place to pee
I went behind a big ol' tree
She saw me there
Then we became a WEE!!
True story or I wouldn't have told-it
I had to pee and couldn't hold-it
when I heard a ring
A'ding, a'ding, ding
And dropped my phone in the toilet.
He said "come here and love me"
Because he was feeling snugly,
She was blind
But very kind
Till she felt his face, so ugly.
The teacher was really fine they said
When Jenny Walker took him to bed
She gave him a knock
And a pretty big shock
But no more History entered her head.
I knew a man named Harold Pew
Who only wore a single shoe
I asked him what for
He stared at the floor
And said, "son, I haven't a clue."
Hank Parker the high-wire walker
Straddled his rope, what a shocker
His voice was once deep
Now he sounds like a creep --
He's such a high-pitched squawker.
BREAKING LIMERICKS BREAKING LIMERICKS BREAK
STOP the PRESSES while we pop the strésses!
EXtry, EXtry, read all about it:
Fake news pays dues to sing rural blues in red-state hues.
Nanny-state networks choose to accuse & civil fury ensues!
See special edition on CIA sedition :
The rural red states stand accused
By the quingdom whose queen they refused
it's so hillbilly-larious
all of them various
voters now left unamused.
FAKE NEWS: it's the virus du jour
of the affluent liberals. The poor
are more prone to believe
it's a plot to deceive
and no government offers a cure.
Was boxed in,
so I had to make a way out,
a way out with words,
I don't like being boxed in,
so box me in I'll knock you out,
way out with words,
in nights on a day out,
boxed in so I wrote a way out,
wrote a way out with words,
road way out on roads,
stayed paid out in shows,
had hate gave love,
took the thorns with the rose…
The H Trilogy
While sleeping in my bed
Rhymes escape my head.
I maunder them around
Then write them down
And publish them instead.
That is, those worth keeping
That I write while sleeping
That often turn out to be
Happily approved by me.
A poetic parrot peeping.
An internal rhyming thing.
Almost an eternal ping
That runs through my brain
There to sometimes remain
And bubble back upon rising.
Sometimes it wakes me up
And I brew myself a quick cup
Because at that time
In search of a rhyme
That goes with boxer pup or buttercup.
I haven’t made a dime from this
My middle-of-the-night muse’s kiss.
I just gleefully scribble
And sometimes I giggle
No matter it’s a hit or a miss.
Far be it from me to complain.
For so many poems remain
That turn out terrific
That I’m labelled prolific.
Either that, or poetically insane.