Doggerel
The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:
There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller
I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:
***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!
Woeful Waffles
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
I think it’s woeful
and should be unlawful
to eat those awful
tofu waffles!
These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch
I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!
Originally published by Light
Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Animal Limericks by Michael R. Burch
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch
Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Other Animal Poems by Michael R. Burch
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
The Blobfish
by Michael R. Burch
You can call me a "blob"
with your oversized gob,
but what's your excuse,
great gargantuan Zeus
whose once-chiseled abs
are now marbleized flab?
But what really alarms me
(how I wish you'd abstain)
is when you start using
that oversized "brain."
Consider the planet! Refrain!
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed ****** humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a ***** one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine:
Baked Alaskan
There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
Going Rogue in Rouge
It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
Pls refudiate
“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.
You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.
Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.
Nonsense Verse
There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
― Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
proves all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch
Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch
A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch
There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch
Doggerel about Doggerel
The Board
by Michael R. Burch
Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.
The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.
Longer Doggerel
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch
Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.
We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.
We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.
Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,
with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”
We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Fliss
An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch
We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!
They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!
And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!
Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college
or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”
And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .
which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”
Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch
At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;
cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;
the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;
pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.
But ...
Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?
Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch
Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!
Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch
after Keats
Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...
Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...
It’s time to make hay!
I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.
How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch
My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!
My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!
My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!
A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch
Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.
A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.
Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!
A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”
No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.
Exeunt stage left.
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
Doggerel about Dogs
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
