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Because even a long summer day
Isn’t long enough to harvest hay.
We modern folk must lose
A lovely hour to snooze
Or botch our Sunday reveillé.
When things go wrong I like to whine.  
Complaining’s free and feels so fine.  
So when I do find fault,
It’s moaning I exalt.  
Sip vinegar instead of wine.
All gargoyles scowl. What is the matter?
These faces will not make things better.  
But gargoyles always scowl
Because their haunches howl,
And slipping off their ledge will shatter.
While perusing pictures at the Louvre
A dragon felt dismayed and moved
At how often they portrayed
When Saint George cruelly slayed.  
If claws could clutch brushes they’d reprove.
There’s only one painting of Saint George slaying a dragon in the Louvre so sterner readers can ding this limerick on veracity.  I tried to find out how many dragons tour the museum in a given year but unfortunately they’d don’t keep records of this.
Too nimble for sluggards to swat
Flies will gambol when it gets hot.  
Don’t bother to flap.  
You’re too slow to slap
That buzzing, tormenting argonaut.
The summer brings on buzzing flies.  
Those whirrings around ears and eyes
Strum lullabies that make
A sleeper **** awake
And aggravate miserable Julies.
All phrases that are pleonastic
And too redundant are bombastic.  
Verbose prolixity
Makes plodding poetry,
A sluggish, limping limerick.
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