Limerick-Off Monday – Rhyme Word: Poor or Pour or Pore at the end of Line 1 or 2 or 5
It’s Limerick-Off time, once again. And that means I write a limerick, and you write your own, using the same rhyme word. Then you post your limerick(s) as a comment to this post and, if you’re a Facebook user, on Facebook too.
I hope you’ll join me in writing limericks using Poor or Pour or Pore at the end of Line 1 or Line 2 or Line 5. (Homonyms or homophones are fine.)
The best submission will be crowned Limerick-Off Award Winner. (Here’s last week’s Limerick-Off Award Winner.)
Additionally, you may write themed limericks related to GRASS, using any rhyme scheme. And of course I’ll present an extra award — one for the best grass-related limerick.
How will your poems be judged? By meter, rhyme, cleverness, and humor. (If you’re feeling a bit fuzzy about limerick writing rules, here’s my How To Write A Limerick article.)
I’ll announce the winners on August 21, right before I post the next Limerick-Off. So that gives you two full weeks to submit your clever, polished verse. Your submission deadline is Saturday, August 20, 2016 at 10:00 p.m. (Eastern Time.)
Here’s my limerick:
A barber was itching to score
Some tickets for Hair — needed four.
’Twas a popular show,
So a likely no-go;
Scalpers rendered his purchase odds poor.
Please feel free to enter my Limerick-Off by posting your limerick(s) in my comments. And if you’re on Facebook, I hope you’ll join my friends in that same activity on my Facebook Limerick-Off post.
To receive an email alert whenever I post a new Limerick-Off, please email Madkane@MadKane.com Subject: MadKane’s Newsletter. Thanks!
Tags: Competition Limerick, Limerick Challenge, Limerick Contest, Poetry & Prompts, Writing Prompts
A long time ago in days of yore
Lived a gentleman who was quite poor.
But he found him some vice
At a reas’nable price,
So kept coming back for some more!
There once lived a lovely young lass
Who was fond of a roll in the grass.
She would “play” on the lawn
From late night until dawn.
And when finished, she’d go straight to Mass.
“George Bush (forty-one), you’re so poor
That the voters should show you the door.
Silver foot in your mouth,”
Teased that gal from the South.
Soon he wasn’t the Prez anymore.
(This refers to a famous line from Ann Richards in her keynote for the 1988 Democratic National Convention, but I am placing it in 1992 using poetic and historical license.)
With charm oozing from every pore
Of his body, the hunk tried to score;
Just imagine his shock
When she threw up a block
That landed him flat on the floor.
The new, new Colossus is YUGE
Yeah, give me your tired, your poor,
And I’ll soon have ’em quitting our shore.
If you’ve been tempest-tost
And you’re homeless, get lost!
For you, there’ll be no golden door.
He was hoping for sex in the grass
With the queen of the sophomore class.
But that lovely young chick
Complained “Oh! A small prick!”
She’d been bitten by ants in the ass.
(A couple of old ones)
He crashed when attempting to pass
A police car. Amid fragments of glass,
He was tested for drugs.
Said the sergeant with shrugs,
“Sir, when driving, please keep off the grass.”
*****************
“Can anything really surpass
A donkey for eating the grass?”
Asked the farmer with pride.
“No, it can’t be denied
That my donkey’s a fine piece of ass.”
Her grades were excessively poor,
So she knocked on her teacher’s front door.
“Can you help with my grade?”
An arrangement was made;
Now they’re both very happy to score.
(Poor + grass)
The grass that he smoked was quite poor,
And it left his throat painfully raw.
That’s because it was not
Marijuana or pot,
But the grass from the lawn by his door.
Though the bimbo was not at all poor,
It amused her to work as a whore.
But she got a surprise,
Having told all the guys:
“When you visit me, use the back door.”
The voter would endlessly pore
Over photos. “Now, who to vote for?
That Melania Trump
Has a very fine rump,
But her husband’s a nutcase, for sure.”
“Incorrigible!” wife oft will roar,
When out from my mouth puns will pour.
So she says to my sons,
“Please don’t laugh at Dad’s puns.
It just will incorrige him more.”
Any yard work, to me, is not play.
To my wife words of praise I did say:
“When you’re out cutting grass,
You’re my favorite lass,
And I lawn for you mower each day.”
If the turf on your lawn dies, don’t fret.
Simply go to a sod farm. I’ll bet
They will have what you need.
You don’t have to plant seed.
Instant grassification you’ll get.
I’ll explain a new word with brevity,
And I hope it contains some levity.
Do not ask just how long
Grass will live; that is wrong.
You should ask about its lawngevity.
All the grass inside prison’s border
Has been carefully grown. The warder
Wants the grass to look nice
At whatever the price.
He’s an advocate for lawn order.
Another strong whiskey, please pour,
Our Country- don’t know what’s in store!
I’m scared and I worry,
So barkeep, please hurry–
Though drunk, I do want an encore!
Reeking sexiness from every pore,
She stroked him and purred, “Mon amour!”
With her ample skills
She gave sultry thrills,
He lay grinning, passed out on the floor.
A reminiscence:
Some good Maui grass brings thrills galore,
But my stash is gone and I want more!
It’s so hard to afford
So I must learn to hoard,
Or I’ll wind up eternally poor!
Trump’s concept of governing’s poor,
He’s a bully and crackpot for sure.
I feel for our Nation,
A sick situation
That only the voters can cure.
And the Lord said, it shall pass
That the Earth will be covered with grass
But after he bespoke it
He didn’t know they’d smoke it
Oy, my creation’s a pain in the ass.
There are two things they tell us are sure:
Death and taxes. Though death is a bore,
We are promised – amen! –
Heaven’s riches. Till then,
It’s the taxes that keep us all poor.
Undercover, he worked as a “grass”
Till the Mafia caught the smartass.
They boiled him in acid,
And life became placid –
What’s left of him fits in a glass.
An arrogant groundskeeper, Saul,
Thinks cutting the lawn is a ball.
Since he likes to cut grass,
Many lawns he’ll amass.
The guy is a real mow-it-all.
Said the billionaire, “Who is that poor
Devil standing outside of our door?”
Said his wife, “I don’t care,
Just pretend he’s not there;
Millionaires we can safely ignore.”
On the subject of grass:
Although Greta Garbo is gone,
Her notable phrases live on.
Her privacy needs
Are now slogans for seeds.
They declare that they “vahnt to be lawn.”
Poe signs the pledge
To drown all his sorrows, he’d pour
Endless whiskies, and mourn his Lenore.
But the night that he heard
An imaginary bird,
He swore off the booze. “Nevermore!”
If you’re visiting old Singapore,
There’s a splendid hotel you’ll adore,
The colonial ‘Raffles’.
But ‘Room Service’ baffles –
“Extra pillow?” They’ll send you a whore.
(Disclaimer: although I have heard that ‘extra pillow’ is a well-known code-word in many hotels, to the best of my knowledge ‘Raffles’ is not one of them. I spent one night there, and can confirm that it is indeed splendid – at least, it was in 1994.)
There was a young fellow named Bass,
who was smoking a whole lot of grass.
Said his priest, who had seen it,
“Don’t do it, I mean it!
Not here in the church, during Mass!”
Olympics are running once more;
Canadians’ teardrops may pour.
When a medal’s just missed
“It’s all good” we’ll insist,
And we’ll proudly claim: “We’re Number Four!”
He went to the casino to score
Some big bucks; lost his shirt, now he’s poor
And stark naked too
Shiv’ring there in the loo
Since they won’t let him back on the floor.
This election year’s not such a gas.
The Republican guy is an ass.
Alas, he’s not Bottom;
No, no Shakespeare wrought him:
The chump who thunk “Trump!” smoked some grass.
EDITED:
The splendor of sex on the grass!
He imagined her smile and tight ass,
She would suck on his cock,
He’d get hard as a rock.
It was nothing but daydreams, alas.
Gods and monsters and myths and folklore
Filled the tomes over which she did pore.
Leda’s swan using force?
A half man and half horse?
“Omigosh,” she confessed, “Must read more!”
Here’s a toast that makes some raise their glass
Spake Doc H: “In vino, veritas.” *
I’d rather be tongue-tied
With munches and tie-dyed.
Here’s MY doctor’s scrip: it’s for grass.
*a Latin phrase that means “in wine, truth”, suggesting a person under the influence of alcohol is more likely to speak their hidden thoughts and desires.
Press Conference
“Yeah, you’re sweatin’ like me from each pore
At the thought of the judges in store.
But ya know what?” [He grins.]
“If that Crooked Hill wins,
Well, that’s just what the Second is for.”
Amendment nineteen folks will roar,
Making Donald J. Trump’s chances poor.
He’s a bully-boy fraud
So the women, by God,
Will show him the way to the door.
“The Elizabethan’s Lament”
Forsooth! ‘Tis a place in the grass
Fit for carnal acts, tender or crass.
But alas and alack!
One thing holdeth me back:
The part that I lack is a lass.
I think it is terribly poor
That our Census count fell on the floor
And our good old PM
Has blamed IBM
Like that mouse who was trying to roar.
(Australia’s iconic Census debacle 2016)
Just one look at his buxom housecleaner
He knew that the grass was mush greener
On the side of the fence
Where bein’ single’s intense
Well, that doesn’t help stifle his wiener.
An amorous laddie and lass
Lay down for a roll in the grass;
Along came a mower
And mowed them both over;
They both lost a fine piece of ass.
“Keep off the grass!” the sign said.
“Like hell I will!” mumbled Fred;
Inhaling a toke
He started to choke
And two minutes later was dead.
Cried out nearsighted Alma, “Alas,”
I’ve lost my contact lens in the grass!
If that lens I don’t find
I’ll be totally blind
And my driving test I’ll never pass!”
Hi, Mad! Would you please correct a typo? In my first entry on Aug 7, the first word of the second line should be “Of” not “On.” (…every pore/ of his body…) Thanks.
From MBK: Fixed.
In bed you’re a terrible bore
She said as she showed him the door
Please leave me at once
You despicable dunce
or I’ll donate your clothes to the poor
EDITED
Smoked grass in a cool corn cob pipe;
Long hair, short skirts, she was that type.
Peace button, soft touch,
Desired so much;
Come hither lips, tempting and ripe!
The Wherewithal Call ~
A wee draft of ale may cure
Many ailments we oft endure.
Generosity calls
Those who have wherewithals,
To pour a bit more for us poor.
A Short Roll on a Grassy Knoll ~
A doughnut, fresh-cooked, lost its hole,
When it fell out and started to roll
‘cross the bakery floor
and then out the front door,
‘til it stopped on a short grassy knoll,
Where it witnessed a story of crime
And held evidence for a long time,
but the sugar was picked off,
And fingerprints licked off,
Until it was mute as a mime,
Then placed in an evidence box,
Which was put in a cage with six locks.
Tucked away, deep inside
It became petrified
And as verbal as other pet rocks.
But someday, an arch’ologist,
Will dig deep in the dirt, mud and mist.
That rock he’ll uncover,
Is where they’ll discover
Some evidence that we’ve all we missed.
Slow Mow ~
There once was a man with a mower,
Who kept pushing it slower and slower,
‘Til the grass got so deep
That he fell fast asleep
Until found by the scythe of the Sower.
If I win the lottery, for sure
I’d like to donate to the poor
My folks, though not needy
(They’re just downright greedy)
Will be queuing up at my door
Wonders of the Aged ~
My hair isn’t black any more,
And the young folks all call me a bore,
‘cause the wisdom I ate
All has gone to my pate
Where gray matter seeps out every pore.
Let it Flow, Let it Flow, Let it Flow ~
The vintner had bad wine galore,
So he poured it all out on the floor.
But his brother-in-law
Laid his wide-open maw
On the spot on the floor where he’d pour.
A guy who ate garlics by the scores,
Exuded it out through his pores.
The neighbours would talk,
Saying, when he went for a walk
The paint would peel off of their doors.
A stripper turned whore, by the shore,
Was ending each night sore and poor.
So she raised all her rates,
For each of her dates,
Now pulling in more from each score.
“I’m trying not to be a bore”
She said to her man “but you snore”
“Please gimme a break
You keep me awake
And you’re running me down to dog poor”
He tried to engage in amour,
But his sense of direction was poor.
When he started to pound
He got all turned around.
So his entry was by the back door.
This fellow whose aim was so poor
Was the Thunder God known in Norse lore.
And the lady? A wisp
With a cute little lisp.
Now thith gal, like her partner, ith Thor.
As someone you would often ignore
His confidence was known to be poor,
But his wife privately concedes
For all her sexual needs
He had always been really cocksure.
***********************
A horse trader in Boston, Mass.
Used his livestock for smuggling grass,
For large packets as a rule
He hid inside a donkey or a mule,
But the small tabs he’d shove up his ass.
A young physicist lived in Lahore,
who became unbelievably poor.
In his quest for the datum
he saved every atom
and some he was splitting in four.
I’m a homeowner. Cutting the grass
Is a chore that’s a pain in the ass.
Says my wife, who’s the boss,
“Tear it out! Put in moss!
It’s still green; from the street it’ll pass!”
Says the Bible, “All flesh is as grass.”
I think of my burgeoning ass:
My acreage needs
To be cleared of its weeds…
But I’ve no one to mow it — alas!
What a day to be wed at the shore!
Bright sun, and the ocean’s low roar!
There I stood, all deluxe
In my nice rental tux —
And that’s when it started to pour.
If you spend too much time at your desk, you
Need a hobby to come to your rescue.
Think how long you will spend
On your flaccid rear end
Once they’ve planted you under the fescue!
My neighbor needs lessons in ‘class’
Makes no effort to cut his tall grass
He’s missing some shingles
Some look like chewed Pringles
His windows are dirty cracked glass.
His dog barks all day like an ass
With its poop piling up in a mass
The weeds make me sneeze
Every time there’s a breeze
With a rusty car’s faint smell of gas.
I wish I could tell him he’s crass
But he’ll say that I’m out to harass
I throw stones with a jerk
And the rats go berserk
Who knows what else may lurk in the grass?
Oh, I just love a manicured lawn
For my tootsies, for prancing upon
Through this carpet I stride
Where my toes love to hide
But if a spider’s inside, then I’m gone!
Sweatshop products in many a store
Really piss me off right to the core
As young as age five
Unpaid, barely alive
Sweat does pour from each pore of the poor.
If you google “7 Countries With Horrific Sweatshop Situations,” you’ll see the practice is worse than you thought. Yeesh!
Folks say, “happiness money can’t buy”
Well, “happy and poor” just won’t fly
If you can’t make ends meet
Tell me, what is so sweet
About life on the street till you die.
You don’t want to beg, borrow or steal
Just to pay for your very next meal
We know money’s not evil
That concept’s medieval
It’s life that’s the shadiest deal.
What the hell is so good about war?
The civilians die or get poor
To prevent all this doom
I say, get a big room
For the world’s politicians, and more.
Give them each a bat, then lock the door
Tell them, “Now you can settle the score!”
Oh, can’t you just picture
How happier, how richer
Would life be on every shore?!
Thanks so much everyone for another fun two weeks of limericks. This Limerick-Off is officially over. And the winner is…
Congratulations to our Limerick-Off Award Winner, the Grass-Themed Limerick Winner, and to the Honorable Mention winners: Limerick-Off Award 259.
But you can still have lots of limerick fun because a new Limerick-Off has just begun: Limerick-Off Sack.