Limerick-Off Monday – Rhyme Word: HAIL or HALE at the end of any one line (Submission Deadline: July 18, 2020)
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 HAIL or HALE at the end of any one line. (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 WRITER’S BLOCK, using any rhyme word. And of course I’ll present an extra award — one for the best WRITER’S BLOCK-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 July 19, 2020, 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, July 18, 2020 at 4:00 p.m. (Eastern Time.)
Here’s my Hail/Hale-rhyme limerick:
“Are you ailing? You look very pale;
Not your usual hardy and hale.”
“No, I think I’ll be fine,
Once I’ve guzzled some wine.
Seems I’ve just had my first taste of kale.”
And here’s my Writer’s Block-themed limerick:
My muse has, alas, gone on strike;
At best, it has taken a hike.
And I won’t say this twice —
I don’t want your advice:
Writing AIN’T just like riding a bike!
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: Annoying Advice, Competition Limerick, Food Humor, Health, Kale, Kale Humor, Limerick Challenge, Limerick Contest, Muse, Poetry & Prompts, Writer, Writer's Block, Writing Prompts
Joe Biden is hardy and hale
The Donald looks farty and pail
Four more years of lies
Or perhaps bluer skies
Come November may our hopes rise
Writing limericks used to be old hat
I thought I had my style down pat
Out the window I stare
Seems the cupboard is bare
In my head there is nothing but fat
I once was a whole lot more hale
But my health is now starting to fail
I’m really a schnook
Who does not like to cook
But I hear that they feed you in jail
So I must figure out a good crime
If I do it, I’ll get the most time
Let’s see. Arson or killing?
But I’m not really willing
To give up my Amazon Prime.
There once was a soldier named Hale,
A teacher who’d studied at Yale.
Being caught as a spy,
He was sentenced to die;
On the gallows, his words did not fail —
His last speech moved each bystander’s heart,
A supreme blend of courage and art…
Had he lived, would he be
(In his sixties) like me,
Just a writer’s-blocked, wordless old fart?
Writers’ block hits me time after time;
My opening lines are sublime,
And the words simply soar
Till the end of line four ….
But I can never get line five to scan properly and to end with a word that has the same sound.
“My rallies are right off the scale;
With supporters like that, I can’t fail!
They give straight-arm salutes
And wear goose-stepping boots,
But who’s this guy “Sieg” that they hail?”
Every good writing venue’s gone stale:
Staying home feels like being in jail;
They’ve closed down the café;
Renting space doesn’t pay;
In the garden today, there was hail.
Now my laptop has gone and dropped dead!
So I’m counting my woes from my bed:
I have nowhere to write
And a jinx I can’t fight…
And this “block” they all cite? That’s my head.
How Herr Twitler in secret must rail,
Now that COVID has made his hopes stale!
Though he’s yearned for a while
To be cheered with “Sieg Heil!”,
All he’s getting right now is “Sick Hail!”
Wear a mask in a crowd? Epic fail!
Against loss of my freedoms I rail.
I can say without doubt
That it’s safe to go out.
(Just whatever you do, don’t inhale.)
(Joking aside …)
Tomorrow, they’re placing a stent,
An intrusion I deeply resent.
But although I feel hale,
Should the artery fail,
I suppose I’ll be glad that I went.
******
From Mad:
Brian, sending lots of “Speedy Recovery!” thoughts your way!
(My younger brother got a couple of stents a couple of years ago and he’s VERY glad he did!)
“I’m abandoned by she who inspired!
Fickle Miss! So, her term has expired.
Not one thought – not one word;
Damn and blast! It’s absurd …
I’m a log without flame till I’m fired.”
Sorry about this.
“I’m abandoned by she who inpired!
Fickle Miss! Seems her term has expired.
Not one thought – not one word …
Damn and blast! It’s absurd!
I’m a log without flames till I’m fired.”
In this moment of anger and fear,
I’m writing a limerick to cheer.
The subject I’ll choose…
Let me turn on the news;
Aw screw it- let’s end with a sneer.
“Moby Dick!” cried the lookout. “All hail!”
Captain Ahab, “Lad’s, catch me a whale!”
I must say, Mum and Dad,
From that point things went bad.
I, for one, wish I’d never set sale.
“I’m abandoned by she who inspired!
Fickle Miss! Seems her term has expired.
Not one thought – not one word …
Damn and blast! It’s absurd!
I’m a log without flame – till I’m fired.”
“In her clutches, I’m putty: abused.
And, a coward, I’ve never refused.
Let her toy, she must play;
I’ll endure, it’s her way;
The alternative’s being a-mused.”
I submit this as a twofer.
Or, rather this:
Dah de dah, dah de dah, dah de hail!
Dah de dah, dah de dah, dah de snail.
Tum te tum, tum te tum,
Tum te tum, tum te tum,
Dah de dah, dah de dah, dah de grail!
At the very least, it should win the ‘Barefaced Cheek’ award.
Wishing you a speedy recovery Brian Allgar and keep those limericks coming!
My brother was not feeling hale,
His manhood was starting to fail.
When in went a stent
He woke up unbent
And found a keen nurse to impale.
Not sure which contest. Both?
The storm was a monster — a gale.
The thunder and lightning! I’d quail.
(Damn! Now what is that rhyme?
My mind blanks all the time.
Those little ice balls are called…)
Writer’s Block: A Lamentation
“I’m abandoned by she who inspired!
Fickle Miss! Seems my lease has expired.
Not one thought – not one word …
Damn and blast! It’s absurd!
I’m a log without flame – till I’m fired.”
“In her clutches, I’m putty: abused.
And, a coward, I’ve never refused.
Let her toy, she must play;
I’ll endure, it’s her way;
The alternative’s being a-mused.”
“Knocked off course; scuppered, wrecked, and assailed;
On the ocean, adrift, till I’m hailed.
Time will pass, oh, so slow.
Just how long? I don’t know;
But until she returns, I’m curtailed.”
Oh, the drama!
With lightening, thunder and hail,
The storm left a damaging trail.
And right at its peak,
Our old roof sprung a leak;
There’s champagne on ice in a pail.
Best wishes Brian!
Sale?? How embarrassing!
“Moby Dick!” cried the lookout. “All hail!”
Captain Ahab: “Lad’s, catch me a whale!”
I must say, Mum and Dad,
From that point things went bad.
I, for one, wish we’d never set sail.
And all the very best, Brian. I understand it’s a relatively simple op’ these days and that the benefits of having it done are very soon felt. I hope that’s your experience. TH
“Moby dick, did you say? Bet that hurts?”
Poor old Gramps, never thinks now, just blurts.
Body? Hearty and hale,
But his mind? Nudging fail.
But he still has the urges and flirts.
Words always keep coming to mind,
Regardless the topic assigned.
Inspiring phrasing,
That’s truly amazing;
Except for the ones I can’t find…
An author, a priest, set his sights
On writing a novel, but fights
Writer’s block that’s so dread,
Inspiration is dead.
So the padre performs his last writes.
So many write up a gale
But, their humour is awkward and stale
If it was like mine
It would be divine
Reward though, would be freezing hale.
Stents or Real Food
‘Plant Paradox’ is not old wives tale
Arteries not feeble and frail
Those that are clude
Avoid factory food
Dr. Grundy’s a hero to Hale.
We’ve seen summer weather just flail
with heat waves, rainstorms, even hail!
Now we’re overcast
with fireworks blasts
which they all must get free in the mail.
She gave him the eye: he seemed hale
As he leered, I’m just after some tail –
My Viagra is workin’,
My pecker is jerkin’!
So hon, pony up for my bail
And I’ll take you out big, on the town!
She glared, looked him up and then down.
What an offer, I’ll pass:
I’m your lawyer, you ass!
Pecker drooped as he winced at her frown.
(Bail was not met that day for Wes Brown.)
“I think this one’s gonna be fun;
It might have a pretty good run.
The challenging part
Is just where do I start?”
– When Tolstoy imagined Page One…
Despicable Donald – hey look;
Your favorite niece wrote a book!
The writer you’d block
Is about to unlock.
Your world as a petulant crook.
Mad – could you please change line 4 in my posting above to read:
“Is about to unlock”
Thanks, Dave
*****
Done.
Resubmit Had the last line wrong
Joe Biden is hardy and hale
The Donald looks farty and pale
Four more years of. lies
Or perhaps bluer skies
And the Donald in jail without bail
“Through rain storms and snow storms and hail,
Count on us to deliver the mail.”
A laudable creed,
But often its speed
Is close to the pace of a snail.
He was muscular, handsome and hale,
The ideally classical male;
A favorite toy
Of every old boy
Serving time in the Cook County jail.
Cried the knight, “Gather round and all hail,
And behold the true Holy Grail!”
The priest took a look
And said, “You’re a crook”–
You brought us an old water pail.”
He claimed he was healthy and hale
When he stepped on the hospital scale;
“My body is nice,
Don’t need no advice–
So what if I’m fat, I’m not frail.”
My limerick started to gel;
Both clever and witty as well.
Assured it would keep
As I fell back asleep;
This morning – no dice – what the hell!
Thanks to everyone for the good wishes.
Unfortunately, they found that the artery was too blocked to insert the stent, so I have to go back in August for a different procedure. But they assure me that I’m not in any immediate danger, since the two unblocked arteries are doing a fine job!
I’ll let you know how it goes in August – thanks again! In the meantime, perhaps I could write a limerick on “Writer’s (arterial) block” …
Larz, your brother’s experience sounds encouraging. I shall tell the nurse that my name is Vlad …
*****
From Mad Kane:
So sorry to hear your disappointing news! Fingers (and toes) crossed for a good result in August!
Thanks for your update, and please keep your updates (and LIMERICKS!) coming.
Poor Donald, you snivel and wail:
“Masks ain’t right for a red-blooded male!”
Well, there’s no need to whine;
Going maskless is fine –
Provided you cease to inhale.
When Doc said “You look hearty and hale!”
His patient (age 92, male)
First got mad — then blushed “Heck,
Guess my ears need a check…
You did NOT say ‘Go fart in a gale!'”
Caesar came, saw and conquered. “All hail!”
“I can’t take all the credit, MacNail.
If the ref’, on the chime,
Hadn’t called extra time …
We were feted to win here, not fail.”
To my teacher I said, “I’m a wreck —
writer’s block is a pain in the neck!”
“From what you have written,”
said she, “you’ve been smitten
perhaps less with ‘block’ than with ‘blech.'”
“Today we shipped Grandpa away.”
“The old man had Covid you say?”
“No, he’s hardy and hale
but he drools without fail
And smells by the end of the day.”
Jill followed Jack up the trail,
To flee Covid germs was their tale.
But their plan was laid bare
By the grass in their hair
And that neither came down with a pail.
Here’s to King Donald: All hail!
He leads and protects without fail.
But when things go south,
He shoots off his mouth
And throws up his hands and turns tail.
Says Donald, “I’m hardy and hale,
Quite ready for any travail.
Soon my spurs will be fine
And I’ll grow a new spine.”
(Don’t you love a good Trump fairy-tale?)
Writers block! Are you out of your gourd?
Let’s get your commitment restored.
All you’ll need for a muse
Is one page of the news,
To find grist for a Nobel Award.
Through rain, sleet, and snow — even hail —
a manly man stays on the trail
till he finds the right slot
to insert what he’s got.
I’m referring (of course) to the mail.
Oh, where have you been Billy boy?
Writing lim’riks was such a sheer joy!
For you were my muse
Have you taken to booze?
Do I need someone else to employ?
” Dreaming About You”
Oh, where have you been Billy boy?
Writing lim’riks was such a sheer joy!
For you were my muse
Have you taken to booze?
Do I need someone else to employ?
Ms. Mad, Of course, my fourth limerick should read: hale.
***
From Mad:
fixed.
Plots and players like rivers cascade
In my thoughts, then somehow I’m betrayed.
They no longer abide,
And my brain’s frankly fried.
And I fear that Nobel’s been delayed.
“Hip-hoorah! Here’s the Emperor! Hail!”
“But those clothes seem all wrinkled and pale.”
“I don’t think those are clothes.
That’s just skin, top to toes.
A GoFundMe he’ll need for his bail.”
If you’re stumped and have no more to say
Then your novel is jammed on “delay”
But it’s not writer’s block
That’s a whole bunch ‘a crock
It’s the golf game you must sport today
Me: Decades Ago
To work in New York’s a travail
At the end of the day, you’re just pale
It’s your first day of work
So you’re still quite the jerk
If you think there’s a cab you can hail
When young, I was not a nice male
I was known as the “mean tattle-tale”
Had to sleep in a pew
Cuz the priest said that “You
Have a whole lot of Marys to Hail”
Ye Fickle Muse. A Twofer?
“Not again! Oh, my mistress, don’t stray!
I had thought we’d get started today.
While you’re here, I am hale;
Take your leave, I go stale;
It’s but six hundred pages – please stay!”
If you want to be slim and real hale
Here’s a game plan that surely won’t fail:
The strategy is
Stay away from the fridge
If impossible, throw out the scale
You feel you’re a talented chap
And writing will be “just a snap”
But soon you are blocked
And totally shocked
When you notice each word is pure crap
My book is a wonderful tale
It’s called “Donald Must Be Sent To Jail”
It’s a lovely account
Which recalls the amount
Of mistakes that are thicker than hail
Ye Fickle Muse
“Not again! Oh, my mistress, don’t stray!
It may be we’ll get started today.
While you’re here, I am hale;
Take your leave, I go stale;
‘Tis but six hundred pages – please stay!”
Minor improvements.
“’Write a line – at least one – every day.’
Isn’t that what the Romans relay?
Well and good, if inspired,
But despond, if you’re mired.
We can do without Romans, I’d say!”
For the classically trained among us, I acknowledge that the advice, given by Pliny The Elder, was intended for artists, but it has since been adopted for writers. (Please imagine saucy, tongue in cheek emoji.)
Mad: (sorry)
I messed up the above limerick, big time.
Could you please delete it?
Thank you,
Lisi
*****
Done.
The old boxer’s brain was so scrambled,
He confused the opponents he’d handled;
I couldn’t take stock
Of the old fighter’s talk,
But I did lend an ear while he rambled.
Said a law student, fresh out of Yale:
“Hey, big business! You want me? No sale!
Hell will freeze ‘fore I go!”
Then they showed him the dough —
And in Hades it started to hail.
I’m late to the party, Brian, but I’ll add my best wishes to everybody else’s. Hang in there!
A State’s decision we must hail
Is to allow voting by mail.
Though Trump would complain,
He must not remain,
To oust him just mustn’t fail.
As a “senior” I’m no longer hale
I can spot someone’s face, but I fail
To remember their name
And what a darn shame
That the train of my thoughts now derail
minor change
As a “senior” I’m no longer hale
I can spot someone’s face, but I fail
To remember their name
And I feel such deep shame
When my train of thoughts start to derail
Ye Fickle Muse
“Not again! Oh, my mistress, don’t stray!
It may be we’ll get started today.
While you’re present, I’m hale;
Take your leave, I go stale;
‘Tis but six hundred pages – please stay!”
“Go, then, Mistress! Good riddance! Be free!
What dost think? That I’m lost without thee?
True, thou ‘spires the odd thought –
But, then, spurns when besought,
And makes naught but a plaything of me.”
“Get thee gone, then! Thy nature is frail!
Truly, didst I say this? Epic fail!
I am ground to a halt:
‘Tis mine own silly fault!
Oh, that folly should so well prevail!”
“Let me put it this way,” said the doc’,
“From now on, keep one eye on the clock.
You’re just barely, not hale;
Any minute, you’ll fail.”
Has this guy never heard about shock?”
Ye Fickle Muse
“Not again! Oh, my mistress, don’t stray!
It may be we’ll get started today.
While you’re present, I’m hale;
Take your leave, I go stale;
‘Tis but six hundred pages – please stay!”
“Go, then, Mistress! Good riddance! Be free!
What dost think? That I’m lost without thee?
True, thou ‘spires the odd thought –
But, then, spurns when besought,
And makes naught but a plaything of me.”
“Get thee gone, then! Thy nature is frail!
Truly, didst I say this? Epic fail!
I am ground to a halt:
‘Tis mine own silly fault!
Oh, that folly should so well prevail!”
“Oh, my love! You’ve returned! I repent!
You are timely and, yes, heaven sent.
I no longer repine …
But I gush. Please, take wine,
Then, let’s to it, my love! Pray invent!”
“Beer and burgers AND fries? Inhumane!
I’d be losing far more than I’d gain
Yes, yes, yes, I’d be hale,
But the cost – eating kale?
You’re a good fella, doc, but insane.”
“From my bed, I was forcibly haled,
Then stripped naked and wantonly gaoled.
‘There’s a flaw in the plan,
Sir. We’ve got the wrong man.’
“’No apology needed,’ I wailed.”
Here’s my limerick on writer’s block:
(Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything.)
“My Viagra?” “It’s here – today’s mail.”
“Send my thanks to Geoff Bezos. All hail!
No more, ‘Stalled at half-mast?’
That’s a thing of the past.
I’ll stand upright and proud when I nail!”
“Let me put it this way,” said the doc’,
“From now on, keep both eyes on the clock.
Neither hearty nor hale,
One false step and you’ll fail.”
Did this guy never hear the word, ‘shock’?
A little better, I hope.
Brave and steadfast was young Nathan Hale,
so I’m hoping his statues prevail.
Now that “topp’ling” has trended,
will Nate get upended
(in error!) then dumped in a pail?
I remember my wild days at Yale
When I followed the “pot smoking trail”
I smoked it in heat;
Also rain, snow and sleet
But I just didn’t want to in hail
I may have certain Muses to thank
(or than bottle of wine that I drank),
but of this much I know,
when my words will not flow,
what I’m thinking is blankety-blank.
“Writer’s block”….well, one thing to defend:
there aren’t typos you wish to amend!
You don’t write “hot” for “hat” —
nor, let’s say, “than” for “that” —
so there’s no futile wish for “unsend.”
Guess Who? (In memory of Cokie Roberts:1943-2019)
Well, Cokie became very frail
Her face, just so pallid and pale
His plane disappeared
Never found, (very weird)
And his first name, none other than Hale
“If ye want to be hearty and hale,
You’d be wise to take tips from this Gael.
Oatmeal! Three times a day.”
‘Neaps and tatties?’ “Och, aye!
And you’ll go twice a day without fail.”
Writer’s Block
I went to the shrink, and he said,
“I know you’ve a feeling of dread
The words will come back
You’ve a fabulous knack
But you have to stop punching your head”
Writer’s Block – Ask The Analyst
“As though stranded in fog – I despair!”
‘Apathetic?’ “Perhaps – I don’t care!
All I know is, I’m numb,
Unattractive and dumb.”
‘Seems you’ve more than one issue to share?’
The first draft of this limerick stank,
Then for hours the page sat there blank.
Not even a word
Could I write, but was cured
By an hour in bed with a skank.
Bob Denver, Dawn Wells, Alan Hale;
Their humor will never go stale.
The comic effect
Of them being shipwrecked
When I’m down makes me laugh without fail.
Among limerick wordsmiths, my rank
Is as low as can be, to be frank.
Once Mad Kane gives the prompt
You would think I’d be swamped
With eurekas – and yet, my mind’s blank.
Each time now, when I hear the song “Hail
To the Chief,” I preemptively bale.
Trump’s approach makes me nauseous;
That tune thus makes me cautious.
(Can’t puke when I’m lacking a pail!)
“What’s it like? Let me think … I’m in jail.
Or, it’s like there’s no wind in my sail.
Writing fills me with dread –
From the neck up, I’m dead …
I would gladly explain, but words fail.”
Angus Pringle was Scots, thus a Gael,
And in every respect, he was hale,
Save in one; he was weak,
Which for Scotsmen means, “Freak!
Mon can nae toss the caber, sae frail.”
“I’m leaving you, Steve,” said my muse,
“If MadKane is the forum you choose.
I inspired the Greeks
But you limerick geeks
Make my sisters and me hit the booze.”
Said Arthur, “Hey Lance, you look hale,
But how come you’re not hunting the Grail?”
Said the knight, “I caught cold,”
But with Gwen he had rolled
At a sleazy motel for some tail.
As I’ve aged, it has come as a shock:
When I write, my brain goes into lock.
There are others like me;
We’ve united, you see.
Come and join us: The Old Writers’ Bloc.
Writer’s Block? Not Me!
To write is a barrel of fun!
Don’t know why people say, “It’s a ton
Of hard work” (It’s mere play)
Think I’ll “call it a day”
I’ve got all of my page numbers done!
He embarked on a dieting craze.
The results never ceased to amaze.
When he stepped on the scale,
Loss of weight he would hail.
It was clear he was changing his weighs.
Verse 2 Limerick Writer’s Block: AKA “Denial”
Writing lim’riks is just so much fun
Don’t know why people say, “It’s a ton
Of hard work” (It’s mere play)
Think I’ll call it a day
I’ve got all of my synonyms done
Tried writing, I felt, “what the heck?”
The endeavor sure made me a wreck!
My mind was so blurred
Couldn’t think of a word
Seems that all I can write is a check
The writer had writer’s block
It seems her mind had been flock
To many thoughts at one time
Caused her to lose her chime
So, she locked her head in a dunce box
His body was beaten by hail
He tried to cover with a veil
Hail drops were so hard
Left his body well scarred
Body looked like a crushed fingernail
Writer’s Block – Ask The Analyst
“As though stranded in fog – I despair!”
‘Apathetic?’ “Perhaps – I don’t care!
All I know is, I’m numb,
Unattractive and dumb.”
‘Seems you’ve more than one heartache to bare?’
This is better.
Sour Grapes
Do not write a novel, it sucks
It’s really so easy, (but shucks)
Hey! Why waste your time?
Go to Amazon Prime
And buy one for $25 bucks
In the midst of his mid-morning walk,
He halted in wonder to gawk;
A beautiful sight,
A raptor in flight–
Mesmerized by his first Krider’s Hawk.
(Krider’s Hawk: a light-colored version of the red-tailed hawk, found mostly in the Kansas/Nebraska territory.)
An old southern busker named Dale
Sang out in the sun, rain, or hail
Every song that emerged
Was as slow as a dirge
‘Til an iceball struck hard on his tail
I’ve been quarantined for so long
My scansion and verse is just gone
I might write it right
If I put up a fight
But the rest of the world is still wrong.
Alternate version … poor Dale
An old Southern busker named Dale
Said quarantine felt just like jail
He went to the fair
There was nobody there
And he wandered home swearing “oh hail.”
Said the hammerhead shark to the whale,
“Just be thankful you’re hearty and hale.
How’d you like to be me
with no head for the sea,
always hunting around for a nail?”
A Writer’s Lament
“Life’s ambition? Be more than a hack.
Write the novel that shouts, ‘And he’s back!’
So, I glare at the screen,
But for weeks all I’ve seen,
Is that sneering blank page staring back.”
“Oh, have pity! One word, I beseech!
Nothing flow’ry, just ordinary speech.
Of course, one … but who knows?
It’s a start, I suppose –
If you don’t keep the rest out of reach.”
“This bloke, Jonah, dad?” ‘Yes, he set sail,
But his mates tossed him over the rail.
He’d got stroppy with God,
Who did not spare the rod,
And had large, hungry fishes on hail.’
“This bloke, Jonah, dad?” “Yes, he set sail,
But the crew tossed him over the rail.
He’d got stroppy with God,
Who did not spare the rod,
And had large, hungry fishes on hail.”
“Three long days in the belly he spent,
After which he resolved to repent.
So, the fish got the nod,
And spewed out the poor sod
Who, though chastened, still harboured dissent.”
I feel a saga coming on.
On Jack’s hill, Jill started to frown
For it rained; she thought they would drown.
And then came the hail.
She found that her pail
was to heavy to carry back down!
Each morning I wake feeling hale,
Till the moment I step on the scale.
I run and I diet;
New gimmick? I’ll try it!
For skinny’s the lost Holy Grail.
“With one bound … Yes! Our hero is free.”
“Oh, well done! And from there?” “Don’t ask me.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Till the Greek bint comes through.
Until then, I’m no smarter than thee.”
“With one bound … Yes! Our hero is free.”
“Oh, well done! And from there?” “Don’t ask me.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Till the Greek bint comes through.
Until then, I’m no smarter than thee.”
“Take more money!” “Okay – if I must.
Though it won’t make a difference.” “I trust
Money’s power to inspire.
If it doesn’t, I fire.”
“Well I’m blessed! See how quick I adjust?”
Next year there’s a judge who I’ll hail
For refusing to grant someone bail.
Donald’s big fat caboose
Shouldn’t be on the loose,
For to Moscow he’d surely turn tail.
“Hey, traveler, from where do you hail?”
asked a shrewd homing pigeon of Snail.
Snail (slowly grown wise)
said, “I won’t fraternize,
so don’t ask me to carry your mail!”
When the sky’s black as night, dropping hail,
It’s no joke to be out, for a snail.
Quite apart from the din,
Direct hits wound the skin,
And leave visible dents in the tail.
Snails appear to be in season.
When the sky’s black as night, dropping hail,
It’s no joke to be out, for a snail.
Quite apart from the din,
Direct hits bruise the skin.
On the plus side, it wipes out our trail.
The first last line was lame.
“All hail. ‘Sthat the collective for hail?”
“No. There is no collective. You fail.”
“Come again! That’s not fair!”
“Go away! I don’t care.
I’m just here to deliver the mail.”
Negotiating Writer’s Block
“With one bound … Yes! Our hero is free.”
“Oh, well done! And from there?” “Don’t ask me.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Till the Greek bint comes through.
Until then, I’m no smarter than thee.”
“Take more money!” “Okay – if I must.
Though it won’t make a difference.” “I trust
Money’s power to inspire.
If it doesn’t, I fire.”
“Well I’m blessed! See how quick I adjust?”
“We’re all done and it’s all down to you –
No, give credit where credit is due.
When you said the word, ‘Fired,’
I saw all I desired,
Being flushed down the Swanee Kazoo.”
acrostic: Writer’s Block
W hy try to pen novels? It’s hard
R emember it may leave you scarred
I know for a fact
T hat it might get you wracked
E v’ry person is not The Great Bard
My muse is a bit of a jerk
Cuz she says, with a cynical smirk
”You’re retirement’s a bore
You write worse than before
I suggest that you go back to work”
“This bloke, Jonah, dad?” “Yes, he set sail,
But the crew tossed him over the rail.
He’d got stroppy with God,
Who did not spare the rod,
Summoned large, hungry fish up by hail.”
“Three long days in the belly he spent,
After which he resolved to repent.
So, the fish got the nod,
And spewed out the poor sod
Who, though chastened, still harboured dissent.”
“But, the point had been made: he relayed
What The Lord had commanded be sayed.
“Ninevites! You are lost,
You now learn to your cost!
Your destruction’s no longer delayed.”
“Well, the Ninevites took this to heart
And as one set about a new start.
So, The Lord changed His mind –
No surprise, He’s so kind –
Making Jonah most miffed on his part.
“What’s the point of the story, then, dad?”
“Well, I think that no matter they’re bad,
When a kind act is done,
To a hated someone,
We should try to rejoice and be glad.”
“My muse, who I know, has her views,
Will rejoice when I tell her the news.
Only three days to go –
Maybe next we’ll have snow?
No, of course, we’ve had that. P’raps tattoos?”
This is not a suggestion.
Once deciding to let my pen talk,
I can scribble all night ’round the clock.
And I produce oodles!
So what if they’re doodles?
I fill every page chockablock.
Couldn’t finish “The Chirp of a Bird”
Till something inside of me stirred
In the dead of the night
I tackled my plight
And remembered that one lousy word
A substantial improvement of a previous limerick
“Guess Who?”
Poor Cokie became very frail
Her face just so pallid and pale
The plane disappeared
Never found, (very weird)
And the first name none other than Hale
I simply can’t think of a plot;
It seems that my mind’s in a knot.
Perhaps I’ll embark
On a wee Cutty Sark,
And keep going until my brains rot.
A double-header (for both prompts):
At God and my muses I rail
Till the end of my novel I hail.
Now I’ll sit back and wait,
Perhaps go on a date
Till rejection slips come in the mail.
A writer who’d taken a crack
At a JFK book said, “Alack!
When I tried to compose,
My whole brain up and froze.
Simply stated, I couldn’t write jack.”
That Tim James never gets writer’s block.
Im so jealous his limericks rock!
Seems his every pun
Is so clever, so fun
I could never be one of his flock!
Say, whom DO we refer to as hale?
Just the elderly? (strong ones, not frail)
I’m strung up by the truth
That young pups, so uncouth,
Are hung up on their youth, without fail.
He thought poetry might win her heart
As he wrote, he soon reached the best part
Till both ends had passed gas
Such distractions! Such class!
The finale – a massive brain fart.
Trump’s speech writer had writer’s block
That’s okay – we’ll be saved by Trump’s schlock
“As my jaws know the clause
To increase the applause
I do ad lib, ad nauseum, ad hoc.”
There’s a drink that is better than ale
It has vodka, tomato juice, kale
Salt-rimmed glass for the ride
Open wide, let it slide
That’s one Caesar that I’d like to hail!
Please don’t have an uncontrolled fit
Your book will be one super hit
All your words may not flow
So be sure that you know
That the first draft of anything’s shit
When writers “block out” they get pissed
But still they hold on and persist
They seem to be followed
And totally swallowed
By demons they just can’t resist
Hearing Trump talk with throat streptococcic
Makes the whole thing appear paradoxic.
Laughs would pound him like hail
As he utters, words fail
To appear; hope it ails him. He’s toxic!
Relax, I can’t stand all your squawking
You writers should never start balking
So please comprehend
That your “block” will soon end
And your fictional friends will be talking
switching of words
Relax, I can’t stand all your squawking
All writers should never be balking
So please comprehend
That your “block” will soon end
And your fictional friends will start talking
The current Limerick-Off ends tomorrow, Saturday, at 4 pm (Eastern time.) So please get your limerick stragglers in.
My limerick cupboard is bare;
At the keyboard for hours I stare.
But today is the end;
Guess this last one I’ll send,
Then relax and go schtupp the au pair.
In Oregon, folks tend to hail
That justice and truth will prevail.
But lately they’ve found
If they gather around,
Trump’s henchmen will throw them in jail.
What to write? What to write? What to write?
What to write? What to write? What a plight!
What to… wait, here’s a thought!
No, it’s gone—I’m distraught.
What to write? What to… fuck it, good night.
Thanks so much everyone for another fun two weeks of limericks. This Limerick-Off is officially over. And the winner is…
Limerick-Off Award 448. Congratulations to the winners!
But you can still have lots of limerick fun because a new Limerick-Off has just begun: Limerick-Off Mall.