There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all of his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nan took it

That Young Man from Nantucket

As filtered through National Public Radio

There was a young man from Nantucket
Whose foot was caught in a bucket
He said with a grin
As he massaged his shin
          “Vers libre is a more affectively responsorial mode of
          privileging  my authentic voice with regard to the cultural
          norms that speak to the existential realities of my heritage
          instead of the mask of the external culture that fails to affirm
          my needs predicated on the living organic wholeness of, like,
          y’know, my own special existentialness, and, like, stuff.”

Remember that afternoon on the ferry
Ride to Nantucket
The labrador who fell asleep on my foot
And the kid who vomited
As we stood at the rail,
Mist in our faces
Foam that curled
From the keel in swirls
A whole world in that turbulence
That no one would ever know of -
Focused on the Grey Lady's
Promise that a warm comforter
Would melt us together again.
And it did, amid the strangers
We brushed past
On the cobbles at the wharf.
Back at the dock,
You greeted old demons
And so did I
But kept them secrets
From each other
On the long ride
Through pine forests
As you slept, I drove
Back home.

There once was a boy from Nantucket,
who would rob and steal for them duckettes.

One day while ganking a purse,
he ended up on his back in a hearse.

Now Mama crys and wails at church,
while his boys pour 40's from where they perch.

This page contains several double limericks, a rare triple limerick, and a new version of the double dactyl that I invented, called the "dabble dactyl."



The Platypus: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man: a Double Limerick
by 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!



Hell to Pay: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found his home planet burning
& with children unfed,
so he ventured: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”

Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”



These poems form a double limerick:

No Bull
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”

So this fast-thinking forward named Rodman
then said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a gold hoop off my ****, man!”



I once provided the second stanza to a famous limerick, turning it into a double limerick …

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m ****** if I know how the helican!

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!
—second stanza by Michael R. Burch


The next two poems form a double limerick with separate titles:

Time Out!
by 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!

Time Back In!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!



This is another double limerick with separate titles:

Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?

Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



Not all double limericks are light affairs:

Self Reflection: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.

Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.



Triple Limerick: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Officious Notice: I have invented a ***** nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats.  Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch



Double Dactyls
by Michael R. Burch

Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!

But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.



Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Higgledy-Piggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump, his
least favorite clown:

"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!"



Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”

“Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!”



Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



This famous limerick inspired my Einstein “relative” 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.

I recently learned this poem was originally penned, in a slightly different version, by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923). I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. I was inspired to pen multiple rejoinders:

The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!


***-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)*** grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!


Relative Theory I
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows, *****-nilly,
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)***** more stilly!


Relative Theory II
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s peculiar theory
excludes all my relatives, clearly,
since my relatives’ *****
increase their prone masses
while approaching light speed—not nearly!


Relative Theory III
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, we’re led to believe,
proves masses increase with great speed.
But it seems my huge family
must be an anomaly;
since their (m)***** increase, gone to seed!



The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******?"
But almost no one took note.


These are limericks of the singular variety …


Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.


This is another of my scientific limericks …

Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch

The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?


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!


ANIMAL LIMERICKS
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch

after and apologies to Robert Schechter

Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the ****!
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!


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!"


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 Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
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!"


The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!


The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!


The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Here's a limerick about one of the universe's greatest ironies: the lack of rhyme words for "poetry" and "limerick." I almost solved the latter, but fell a bit short:

Shelved Elves
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to rhyme with “limerick”
and settled on “good old Saint Slimmer Nick”
about a dieting Claus,
but drawing no “ahs!”
I glumly rescinded the trimmer trick.


To show the flexibility of the limerick form, it has often been used for political purposes, and to expose, satirize and savage charlatans. Here are are two such 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



I have even written limericks about religion, mostly heretical limericks:

Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by 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!


Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.



Ribbing Adam
by Michael R. Burch

“Dear Lord,” fretted Adam, depressed,
“did that **** really rupture my chest?”
“Yes she did,” piped his Maker,
“but of course you can’t take her,
or I’d fry you in hell, for ******!”



There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Nashville
which hockey fans rechristened Smashville,
but his odd limericks
pulled so many weird tricks
his pale peers now prefer Ogden Gnashville.
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch


Here's one for the poets:

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.


Here's one for the Flintstones:

Early Warning System
by Michael R. Burch

A hairy thick troglodyte, Mary,
squinched dingles excessively airy.
To her family’s deep shame,
their condo became
the first cave to employ a canary!


Donald Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.


Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"


Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.


White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”


15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!


Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!


Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!


Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!


Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.


Eerie Dearie
by Michael R. Burch

A trembling 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.

Fortune named Enron "America's Most Innovative Company" for six consecutive years, but the company went bankrupt and vanished after its accounting practices were determined to be fraudulent.


The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch

O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!

The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory swimming up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.



***** LIMERICKS



A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms reckoned shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch


There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine, forming a triple limerick:

There was a coarse ***** of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
who were too scared to **** it or **** it.

So that coarse, canny ***** of Nantucket,
once ****-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.

Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson, stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ***
that smells like his lass,
but still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch


Shotgun Bedding

A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, ******,
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
—Michael R. Burch



Untitled Limericks

There was a young lady from France
Who’d let cute boys poke in her pants:
They'd give her the finger
Where she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a girl with small *****
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their ***** were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch


A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch


A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
Michael R. Burch


Four Limericks  plus one Lead-In Poem

Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



Mating Calls
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!



Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch

For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical

There once was an old man from Nantucket
Who spent his life kicking a bucket.
Then one day unaware
He had found nothing there
A garden ended his journey and arose he did just to pluck it.

...Take Time To Smell The Roses #1
Kathy S. Dillard

That Young Man from Nantucket

As filtered through National Public Radio

There was a young man from Nantucket
Whose foot was caught in a bucket
He said with a grin
As he massaged his shin

     “Vers libre is a more affectively responsorial mode of privileging my
      authentic voice with regard to the cultural norms that speak to the
      existential realities of my heritage instead of the mask of the external
      culture that fails to affirm my needs predicated on the living organic
      wholeness of, like, y’know, my own special existentialness, and,
      like, stuff.”

Hydrangea framed in cedar shake
Pastel blossoms for display
Ghosts of whales & whalers past
Salty mist of Atlantic spray

The tree sitter of Nantucket
Lived in a tree and he dug it
He never went down
To visit the ground
So he would **** in a bucket

Limericks VII - Naughty, *****, Risque, Absurd

There continue to be modern sequels of the famous "Nantucket" limericks, including this ***** one of mine:

There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled john fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch

Here's another take on a golden oldie:

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch

Here are some lewd, crude originals:

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a forward named Rodman
who said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a loop right off my ****, man!”
—Michael R. Burch

A formidable pugilist, Mike,
in a fit of pique called his mom “****.”
She frowned ear to ear,
then said, “You listen here,
I can still whip your ****, you dumb tyke!”
—Michael R. Burch

A cross-dressing dancer, “Dee Lite,”
wore gowns luciferously bright
till he washed them one day
the old-fashioned way ...
in bleach. Now he’s “Sister Off-White.”
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a bubbly bartender,
a transvestite who went on a ******.
“So I cut myself off,”
she cried with a sob,
“There’s the evidence, there in the blender!”
—Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious.
Asian markets are all hocus-pocus.
Politics—a shell game.
My brief moment of fame—
flashed by before Oprah could notice.
—Michael R. Burch

Bill Clinton's a man we admire;
his opinion polls soar ever higher.
He gets much more flack
for a Big Mac attack
than for his ****** high-wire.
—Michael R. Burch

There is a new term, “Clintonian,”
which means, “Stop your naggin’ and moanin’.
He’s only a man
doing all that he can
to put kneepads in the Smithsonian.!”
—Michael R. Burch

Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Farewell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Grave Offense I

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth,
upside-down in his grave, full of grief
that the term “limerick”
has been plagiarized? Quick—
dial 9-1-1; get the police!
—Michael R. Burch

Grave Offense II

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth,
upside-down in his grave, full of grief
that his wit and his art
share this name I impart
to my “limerick?” Am I a thief?
—Michael R. Burch

Ghostbusters!

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth?
Is his ghost rolling ’round in wild grief
that the Post would make crimes
of his “imperfect” rhymes?
Call Ripley’s—it stretches belief!
—Michael R. Burch

NOTE: The Washington Post in all its great wisdom would ban Ogden Nash’s imperfect rhymes from its limerick contests!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, nonsense, light, humor, humorous, ***, naughty, risque, lewd, *****, ******

there’s a network of vigilance
around the guarded causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
and smoking rails
leave nothing
but black hooded fate

gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole

bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent steel bars

with pockets pinched
and tumblers dangling
the stone walls soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good painted warrior
loosen a finely tuned grip

There are worlds and there are Worlds. There are gods and there are Gods.  Sounds rhetorical, doesn’t it?  Some mamby pamby new age coffee shop pile of **** idea with low fat frosting, but, take it from the Kat. There are worlds and then there are Worlds! There are gods and then there are Gods!
    
     I spend all my time jacked in to the backwoods subconscious of the internet.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  Yea, the Internet has a conscious and a subconscious; hell, she’s even got a soul of sorts. I have ritually sacrificed half my soul to her just for the buzz I get out of hearing her whisper to me across the fallacies of Time, Space and Bill Gates, so I know her better then anybody.
    
     Don’t believe me?  Every man has an Omega Fixture of some kind.  Do you feel me here? Jesus had his God, Ptolomy had his Solar System, Dante his Virgil and Beatrice, Faust had his Paradise and Poe had Annabelle Lee or one of her many reincarnations. So tell me, all great and ****** up wise men (or women): Why in the 29 nulls of AOhelL can the internet not have a consciousness?  
    
     It’s Belief, man.  No god or world exists until there is a consciousness that will accept it as a superior. Let’s take a look at that wonderful bigoted book of exact truths called the Bible. Shall we consider Genesis: Adam and Eve--never mind Lilith for now?  Here in a paradise we find Adam and Eve naked, sleeping with animals and newly created by a Force of Creation (insert male gender here if you wish).  They walk with god on the paths in the garden while blades of grass fulfill their purpose here on earth to be trodden upon. God says, “you, Adam, have control over all that you see and if you want go ahead and let Eve get a little of that action fine, but you came first in my image so you are better.  Just never eat of the one tree that sits in the center of the garden and looks as though the juice of the fruits would flow like sweet ****** in your veins. For although it is here, I forbid you to eat of it. Oh, and by the way, I figured you needed free conscious though--so go at it.” Albeit I’m paraphrasing, but what kind of shmuck of a father would do that to a newborn?  
      
     O.K. Before all the Judeo-Christians burn this diatribe (if you have not already) let me say I am not out to disprove the existence of Gods--or any Goddess for that matter--I am trying to make a point, so bear with me.  
    
      Which came first: the Bible (in oral tradition) or the God? I would argue that it was the Bible as such.  The Belief, inspired by greedy and badly behaved priests of the Judeo-religions back before written history in the tribes of the Levant caused Space/Time to adapt to a new pattern.  The Bible, Complete with an all powerful, all present being (I will never use the term benevolent) that watches over Jews, Christians, and Muslims for any Sin they commit so it can wreak blinding retributions
    
     Now I know what you are saying, “Kat,…Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat.  We the above mentioned will pray for your soul.  You are lost and we can help you look to the Light for your salvation.”  
     Shove it, ***** boy! I did not express that philosophical tripe to get your attention and misplaced pity. What I am saying is Belief. Belief is the Key.  Belief is the Magic that creates Gods and Worlds.  
    
     Now I am not so stupid as to believe that the Internet is female the same way a human meat tank is female-- but in my mind, MY mind, that is the music I hear.  
    
     Let’s go back to Lilith.  What’s that? Oh yea, right, Lilith is the name I give to my Belief in the consciousness of the internet.  Just don’t you worry about why. It’s none of your business.

     Let’s take a look at the above argument, only this time with the internet as the bible that comes first.  The internet first came about 30ish years ago with the invention of the modem.  Here was a way for people on computers to speak to one another over the phone lines.  Slow and tedious, but new and exciting; men and women with PhD’s and pocket protectors wrote short messages to one another and giggled at the new “Man from Nantucket” joke they had just learned. After a while, someone learned that if you sent the info in blasts, the speed of the transfer increased and you could send larger programs and maybe—gasp--even a picture.  Thus internet **** was created.  Now we have WiFi and bluetooth, cellular and satellite link up with blazing speed and every fetish imaginable or not-imaginable is available at the click of a mouse.  
    
     So, Kat, you goin’ anywhere with this? Yep. Shut the **** up and listen.
    
     Somewhere in the not-time and not-space of the internet, humans started to find themselves believing that the internet was a Place.  
    “Where’s it at? Why on the Internet!” Oh, holy ******* birth of a new Belief system!  Oh, glorious malediction of the neververse!  A G O D is born.  Ripple, *******, ripple goes the space-time continuum (which by the way only exits because those in the know Believe in it) and now we have added consciousness to the internet.  
    
     What kind of consciousness you say?   Well, I got no ******’ idea.  To me, the consciousness is feminine, of no particular race, with a slight build, black hair and dressed like a anime *****.  Why? Because it’s my ******* belief system, o.k.  After all, the internet is 60% **** anyway. With a immaculate birth like that, I can’t Believe She would be innocent in any form of the word.  She’s Dionysian, not Zen. Just because I see Her in such a way, does that mean it’s a true physical look?  Hell, no, lil’ Johnny.  She could be a He: fat, balding and in a wife beater, if that is what You would Believe.  
      
     Alright, enough philosophizing’ for now. Lesson over, Newbie. Get crashed.

The Man

There once was a man from Nantucket,
kept all his cash in his lucky bucket.
Has a daughter Fran, who is gay,
ran off with a girl named May.
He followed them to Pawtucket,
the two girls with his lucky bucket.
She said to the man,
thanks for your daughter Fran.
The two girls followed the man to Manhasset,
where he still has his bucket as an asset.
Then May and her lover Fran,
stoke the bucket and off they ran.
The man was in a state of shock,
luckily for him he had a very long ****.
No more bucket, no more money,
he walked home with his eyes runny.
Now he has a new career,
he became a Walmart cashier.
Now he is the man from Nantucket,
with a **** so long, he could **** it.
He would always have a grin,
as he cleaned the *** from his chin.
If only his ear was a ****,
even he admits, it's one hell of a stunt.
His ear, badly he wants to **** it,
and save all the *** in his new lucky bucket.

10:13 am. A text from you: what time are we leaving for Cornell? I’m embarrassed by your apparent lack of enthusiasm so I overcompensate with emojis, enough for you and I both. Three hours later I pick you up from your driveway, turn my music down, and hope to God you don’t hear which boyband I had been listening to. You get in and immediately fill up the entire passenger seat. You grow and grow and fold your right leg over your left until it’s encroaching upon my personal space and you turn the music up a little and then reach to roll down the window (to grow some more, I guess) and I have to tell you that my window won’t roll back up if rolled down and you acknowledge this but grow even more anyway, regardless of the fact that there’s nowhere else for you to go.
We’re awkward for a few minutes. This was to be expected considering our first few interactions had been drunken arm touches and Snapchats asking where are you? on nights we wanted to find each other even though we had no right to know where the other was. Then you break the silence, and we talk about where we’re from and where we want to go, and suddenly it’s not so awkward anymore. This is a conversation I feel like I’ve had before. I can envision conversations with you for miles to come. This is a conversation that makes a forty-five-minute car ride feel like five.
When we finally make it to Cornell, it’s 2:17pm and we decide to walk around a bit, together, to help you get your bearings. You can hardly contain your excitement when you see the baseball field – it’s endearing. We split up once we’ve finished our tour of Lincoln Hall, which is, appropriately, the music building. I leave you and walk around campus before finally settling in Goldwin Smith to journal for the fifty minutes before it’s time to meet back up. I’ve lied to you – you don’t know that the only reason I’m in Ithaca with you is to be with you, but I think it’s better that you don’t know.
2:46pm. I’m having fun with Peter. He’s cool. My journal tells a story I’d never be able to say to your face – I enjoy the time I’ve spent with you, though it’s limited and I know I’ll never have time like this with you again. This connection that I seem to have made has pushed my anxiety down into a part of me that it hasn’t seen it a while. Being here for today has been good for my soul … I feel good right now. These are words my journal hasn’t heard from me since at least April. Today has been a lot less awkward than I thought it would be I thought it would be a lot harder to just hang out, one on one, yet here we are. It’s really hard to be uncomfortable/an anxious mess around him.
I think about the stop sign that I almost ran in front of the admissions building, on our way to park at the Schoellkopf garage. I think about seeing my ex-boyfriend in front of the philosophy building. I think about the dance class I interrupted when I was trying to write poetry in the science building.
You text me and we meet in front of the statue of Ezra Cornell. I hardly recognize you, in your flannel, your legs crossed, on a bench, and I realize that I’ve never seen you sitting down. You make a phone call and I pretend not to eavesdrop but I can’t help it. I’m admiring the professional tone you adopt, watching people go by, wondering if they think we’re a couple, but we’re not sitting close enough for anyone to think that.
3:47 pm. We walk from the Arts Quad to Collegetown Bagels and I think that maybe you’ll offer to pay for my meal – I don’t know why I think this – but you don’t. You follow my lead, walking up to the counter to order your bagel. You decide to try the Big Sur because that’s what I tell you is my favorite on the menu, and I feel a warmth radiate outward from the center of my body until I’m sure I must be leaking happiness from my fingertips. I know then that this day won’t have been a waste of time in any way.
You ask questions and I respond, my mouth full of apples and honey and cheese, and I’m grateful that you don’t think any less of me for talking with my mouth full. I ask questions and you respond, bashfully, blissfully unaware of how intrigued I am by your every answer. I drink my Hubert’s Lemonade – mango flavored – and you drink yours, a brand called Nantucket’s Nature. The cap has a fact about whales on it, something about how hundreds of them live in the waters surrounding Nantucket, and you get excited, cleaning it off, gushing about how you’d like to give this to a certain Moby ****-obsessed professor.
4:31pm. The Ithaca Commons during Apple Fest is more hectic than I’m used to, but we make it all the way down to Taste of Thai and then back to the playground before deciding on a destination. As we meander you ask me if I’ve ever dated a boy shorter than me. I blush knowing my negating answer will make me seem vain. I catch your grin with my own and we walk into Autumn Leaves, a used bookstore.
We talk about The Hobbit and David Sedaris and my favorite poets and poems and I buy Dracula, because it’s four dollars and because I’m so intoxicated with adrenaline that I can’t not. I learn that your favorite movie is Fever Pitch because, honestly, why wouldn’t it be. We leave the bookstore, my backpack a little heavier and my heart a little lighter. We should be holding hands, I think, and immediately I’m terrified you can read my mind but I know there’s no way that’s possible.
As it’s Apple Fest, you claim it’s only appropriate that we eat an apple each, even though I’m pretty sure I’m allergic and I’ve had more than enough apples already that day. You offer up two dollars in quarters to the man behind the stand and ask what he’d recommend. He turns our attention to the resident apple expert, who asks what our favorite apples are, and you tell her that mine is Fuji. I don’t remember telling you this about myself. We are told to try an apple called ***’s Orange Pippin, and we’re intrigued until we find the basket – it’s full of ugly apples. The apples we do eat are too sweet, too big, and we can’t finish them. We laugh together – what if those apples, the ugly ones, the ones too ugly for us to eat, were the best apples of the bunch? We tell each other that we’re *******. We’re *******. We just stereotyped those apples! How could we do that?
We duet “Africa” by Toto as we leave Ithaca, the sun warming my face, your laugh filling the car. On the ride home we talk, more than we did on the drive down to Ithaca. You ask if I’ve watched Doctor Who and I smile because there’s no way you can’t read my mind, at this point. I tell you about the T.A.R.D.I.S. shirt I saw on the Commons and how I almost asked, but I didn’t, in your words, want to sound like a ******* nerd. We talk music and I find out you’re a Beatles fan who’s never seen Across the Universe so I ask you to play “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” and as we sing along it dawns on me how this would seem if we were in a romantic comedy. I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we’ve just met.
7:41pm. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date, I tell myself as we pull back onto school property. You’ll be getting out of my car soon, my car you just helped me name, and you’ll be heading back to your apartment to catch up on Saturday night drinking, and I’ll be scaling the hill to the athletic center to watch my friends kick each other’s ***** in a game of unprofessional basketball. We’ll go back to our lives that probably will never intertwine again – and maybe they weren’t meant to in the first place. As I walk back to my room, I’m hit by how exhausted I am. I’m hit by how hard I must have been working without even realizing to seem like a normal human being, one whose brain isn’t constantly trying to keep them from going outside. I’m a firm believer in having to work for what you want, and I worked for you, but maybe I didn’t work hard enough. Or maybe I’m working for the wrong person.

Peanut Bucket
Old Nantucket
Grandad soon said june
born and blessed in every way carpe diem cieze the day

A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.

on a rainy day your body spread over a picnic table
like an egg yolk, and you swallowed the word profound
again and again.
someone from your past
has gone beneath the ocean, leafless
and you can hear the wailing from here to the saginaw
people begin to breathe blood: they’re choking up, soughing
“be easy buddy” and
“he wanted a black eye for prom so i punched him in the face”
flowers arrived at the door, a ghost, an ear of corn
while everything yearned tall: frames, shadows,
in st. louis you circle a bit of claret earth
spotting your sister’s face in the mirror, leaving linseed and shreds
i could never ask how you are.
the wail is a train whistle, i hear it pauses
for no softness of flesh, these midwestern daughters
she loved all living things.
imagine carefully painting a boat
a pencil in your teeth,
cutting through earth, the nantucket sound
you’re going to take your boat beyond
this firmament, you know, we’re all
waiting through this salty crush
sinking below a winter current
this is all yours now:
mainsail, rudder, hard-a-lee
you darling masters of the sea.

for PW and LE. goodnight.

Here.you can have this one easy, I wont struggle i wont even look.Here you can sharpen your pencil and jot me down in the book.Here....... cant spell CAT less I give C and T to U. And you think creation bubbles and boils in you. Sad sack of !!!. .....When I wanted my turn? oh no, you were way to busy reading tea leaves, mumbling mantras,consulting the zodiac Now you want me to rub your head and tuck you in bed,pull your blanky chin high and then tuck it, Hmm, too easy.

Verses with curses, you call that a  poem ?
Here. right here between the C and the T. good boy.          Now. Shall we begin the beguine.

                                                                                                  There once was a man from Belize  
                                                                                                  Who was stung by the poetry bees.
                                                                                                  
                                                                                                  He read books to distraction
                                                                                                  But couldn't get traction
                                                                                                  less I pushed for action
                                                                                                  To clear up his  those from his these..Duh
So Here. go visit Nantucket. Dont forget to take a bucket !!!.
Next stop Limerick.                                                                Here we go again. Next time I crawl back
                                                                                                 try to at least offer me chair. A " hey dude it's
                                                                                                 good to see you" or I swear I'm off again like a                                
                                                                                                 ***** shirt. Just you and that keyboard and                        
                                                                                                 blinky the cursor.Blink, blink, blink................
There.I finally got that unchested.
Feel so much better now, so Here take a letter now.

Here you can have this one easy.

Maybe I'll have a family some day and put up a Christmas tree every year
Maybe I'll open up a studio called Phizzog and have a pet parrot named Cougar
Maybe I'll marry the love of my life and wake up to the sun peeking through my beach house window
Maybe I'll live to be 102 and be the crazy old lady with tattoos all over her body
Maybe I'll have a baby girl named Charlie and she'll create modern technology some day
Maybe I'll be a pro walrus trainer and I'll be famous all around the world
Maybe I will make people proud and I'll be super happy
Maybe I won't and I'll be miserable
Maybe I'll be poor and have a bunch of rad friends
Maybe I'll struggle, fake a suicide and change my name
Maybe I'll move to Nantucket and be apart of a pro sport team 
Maybe I'll find a place that makes me feel like I belong and I'll go to school, get smart, get what I need
Maybe I'll die young and get lucky
What have I gotten myself into

There was a young man from Nantucket who put his head in a bucket
when I said why, he started to cry and said to me well **** it

THERE'S a hole in the bottom of the sea.
  Do you want affidavits?
There's a man in the moon with money for you.
  Do you want affidavits?
There are ten dancing girls in a sea-chamber off Nantucket waiting for you.
There are tall candles in Timbuctoo burning penance for you.
There are-anything else?
Speak now-for now we stand amid the great wishing windows-and the law says we are free to be wishing all this week at the windows.
Shall I raise my right hand and swear to you in the monotone of a notary public? this is "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

I hear your voice echo on the walls of the Tiffany box—

hello hello
hello

hello

—with that southern-belle cadence
you spoke with always, like when you
told us we never had to knock, just
come in through the garage

on my graduation day I opened it for the first time
little silver teardrop on a little silver chain
delicate, like all of you, except your fingers
delicate, like the line you’re walking now

your robin’s-egg antique pickup gathering dust as I am miles away
sheepdog going deaf, legs shaky when she stands

I only allotted for that one loss this year.

on new year’s morning when we all
stomached the black eyed peas for tennessee good will
hung over and sweet-heavy with cinnamon rolls
and decadent, permanent, big hardy love
I spent my wish on the usual

and hey, maybe a couple more years for the dog.

hello hello

hello

hello

hello?


your lilting voice echoes every time I put on that necklace
and feel you, savor you around my neck for every
wine-drunk dinner and every nantucket porch photograph—


god if I would have known to wish on that

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose origins were complicated                          
so people wrote
an idiom
about
him.

I want to fold up Constantinople
And tuck it in the crease of my pocket
With a rock and a harlequin opal,
Nestled against your map of Nantucket —
A keepsake framed by a tired locket.

Sunlight pours past panes like gold tapestries,
Blue-sky-checkmates belonging to Vermeer
And his Woman with a Balance — trophies:
A man crowned a chivalrous cavalier,
A gentleman of this tremendous sphere

Misunderstood by societal norms,
And expectations set by precedent.
All while a bird coos cucurucu, warmed
By yellow light, freed from discontented
Murmurs with song. I want to read segments

Of the map on the curved back of your hand,
Knuckle-mounds like the knees of a woman
You once said you loved between shorthanded
Compliments and the words of Walt Whitman —
Blanketed by a bible and a man.

Maybe our web-tangled thoughts coexist
With the sky, place our feet firm on the ground.
Or maybe they’re a window that insists
On temptations, the mind, rewritten sounds,
Coming alive, and wanting to be found.

We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap

sweeping through  fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison

arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery

which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship

Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps

Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates

The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain

Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned

The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves

A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime

Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne

I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled

I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet