Limerick-Off Monday – Rhyme Word: ROOTS 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 as a comment to this post and, if you’re a Facebook user, on Facebook too.
I hope you’ll join me in writing a limerick using ROOTS at the end of Line 1 or Line 2 or Line 5. (Homonyms or homophones are fine.)
The best submission will be crowned Limerick Of The Week. (Here’s last week’s Limerick Of The Week Winner.)
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 Limerick of the Week Winner next Sunday, right before I post next week’s Limerick-Off. So that gives you a full week to submit your clever, polished verse. Your submission deadline is Saturday at 10:00 p.m. (Eastern Time.)
Here’s my limerick:
A woman obsessed by her roots
Found some ancestors deep in cahoots
With pirates and killers.
No heroes! No pillars!
Now she knows why she likes to wed brutes.
Please feel free to write your own limerick using the same rhyme word and post it 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: Ancestry Humor, Ancestry Limerick, Competition Limerick, Limerick Challenge, Limerick Contest, Poetry & Prompts, Writing Prompts
I never have worn cowboy boots.
But I have worn some nice three-piece suits.
I’m no fashion plate
but if out on a date
my attire is proper for coots.
Mad Kane has suggested it’s Roots.
Which I read, quite blindly, as Boots.
So I’ll trade my new pair
for my awfully thin hair.
Which won’t garnish me any “Woots!”
A woman obsessed on her roots
Found some strands gray as Puss in his boots
with tweezing and snipping
hair set about ripping
Obsessing now o’er docs in white suits
The society dentist commutes
Each weekend from his penthouse, and scoots
To a shack in the sticks,
For his parents are hicks,
But he hasn’t forgotten his roots.
The bindweed has thousands of shoots,
So I pull on my gardening boots
And I chop and I hack,
But it always grows back –
It’s those damned indestructible roots!
Eats, roots, shoots, and leaves
An Aussie’s the rudest of brutes;
As soon as he’s eaten, he roots,
Then he shoots, then he leaves,
Though my teacher believes
That a comma too many pollutes.
(Can you believe that the wretched ‘Rhymezone’ doen’t even give ‘imputes’?)
The sought-after hooker imputes
Her success to her muscular glutes;
When she wiggles her bum,
All her customers come
Before they’ve explored other routes.
(Ooops! Mad, I’ve just seen a typo – the first line of my second limerick should be “The bindweed has thousands of shoots”.
(Fixed — MK)
The sky-diving trainee recruits,
Having taken the quickest of routes
To the ground, were squashed flat
With a terrible ‘splat!’ –
They’d forgotten to open their ’chutes.
She insisted on healthy pursuits,
Eating only organic whole fruits,
But she didn’t do well
With the coconut shell,
And her teeth are ground down to the roots.
When I’m driving, my wife wears the boots,
And it’s led to uncounted disputes.
“You should have turned right!
We’ll be driving all night!”
So I now stick to GPS routes.
They are pissed as a couple of newts,
And they go on the rampage. One loots,
While the other just trashes
The shops that he smashes –
The streets now resemble Beirut’s.
My wife took me shopping for suits,
But she ended up trying on boots.
What I told her still rankles –
“Dear, not with your ankles!”
She pulled out my hair by the roots.
The sailors were all in cahoots;
When on leave from their sea-going routes,
They would meet her to bang
As a nautical gang,
And they’d give her their ten-gun salutes.
The tree had voluptuous roots,
Of that there had been no disputes.
They spread to the next yard
Leaving landscaping scarred.
Thus started the multi lawsuits.
The US has deep freedom roots,
Enhanced after many disputes.
But profits decreed
By corporate greed
Destroyed rights by men wearing suits.
I love wearing hot cowboy boots,
Though a city girl; no country roots.
I look good, guys agree
Making sexual plea
With cat-calls; come hither salutes.
Everyone has undisclosed roots
One can say they’re absolutes
In my family alone
We worked our muscles to the bone
So proud to be a part of “Skillful Prostitutes”
she never has colored her roots
or toned-up her once perky fruits
she’s more than okay
with her hair turning gray
and tucking her tits in her boots
We kids would let out high-pitched hoots
When our grandma emitted her root(s)
Tooty toots. They were loud
But our Gram, she was proud:
“I pass gas at my age when it suits!”
On one of those big photo shoots,
She was pulling her hair by the roots.
Her photographer wrangled
For one single angle;
He focused on only her glutes.
Fallon’s band is named The Roots
with picking and plunking and toots
They play all sorts
of musical fortes
But I wish the had oboes and flutes.
Lumberjacks, some will say, are mere brutes,
Built for power from abs, pecs, and glutes,
But in math they do well.
Yes they truly excel.
Cutting logs, they compute all nth roots.
(For those who have forgotten or never learned logarithms, you can compute a square root by dividing the log of a number by two then finding the antilog of the result. Cube roots involve dividing the log by three. And in general, you can find the nth root by dividing the log by n.)
The great panda ingests leaves and shoots.
I should mention, he also eats roots.
The commas trump all,
A meal or a brawl?
After leaving, were there some disputes?
My dentist probes all handy roots
With gusto (as do bandicoots).
But it isn’t too gruesome.
My cheek’s on her bosom.
So in fact I could not give two hoots.
A weight-lifter worked on his glutes
His sinews were ropy, like roots
Once skinny and fragile
He’s not very agile
But a mugger just looks, and then scoots
A coward, scared to his roots
Stood quaking for hours in his boots
It seems that a mouse
Had invaded the house
And his wife was out shopping for suits
A Canadian creep on the ‘oots
With the law had no further doots
He picked up his gun
Made ready to run
And severed the last of his roots
A bartender often dilutes
His whiskey for unwary brutes
They caught on one day
Threw him in the bay
And left him bobbing for roots
I think I’ve had too many roots
Beers tonight: I see more than one flutes
On the bar, it’s a double ~
I may be in trouble;
Yep, now looking up at my boots!
A horny young cowboy named Hoots
Had a notion that he’d park his boots
Under Annabelle’s bed;
But her daddy instead
Made sure he laid down by the roots.
At a hockey game, everyone roots
For the moment when bad-tempered brutes
Decide to engage
In a two-minute rage
With a backdrop of hollers and hoots.
Written by Phyllis Sterling Smith:
There once was a woman named Toots
Who cherished her garden’s fine fruits.
She hated the weeds
Their sneaky small seeds
And she pulled them all up by the roots.
Mad,
Cancel that last request. Phyllis thought of a better fix. Seems I posted this before it was quite settled.
last line of the Kitten named Boots:
“Was catnip: leaves, stems, even roots.”
There once was a kitten named Boots
Who favored fine fare (mice and newts).
But his favorite flavor,
The one he’d most savor,
Was catnip: leaves, stems, even roots.
Her large family sits front row and roots
For the dancer they once all called Cutes.
She spins out, pirouettes –
Is as good as it gets :)
Ballet Cutes-style: she’s wearing pink boots.
When it comes time to “do” my roots
I put on a pair of army boots
Then I don a shirt
Which has seen its share of dirt
And I proceed to squirt the walls with a bottle of “Blonde Pursuits”
The G.O.P. cheers and salutes
Elites in their Brooks Brothers suits
Who’ve fashioned our path
With “stupid rich” math
Befitting their one-percent roots.
Her family had very strange roots
At the very least, perplexing pursuits
They woke up at night
Went to bed when the sun was bright
At game time they played “Ladders and Chutes”
The Need to Weed
The weed gave, all three feet of roots:
My hubby gave two gleeful hoots!
Loves the slow sucking sound
As it exits the ground,
Then he stomps on it in his (non) boots.
By Phyllis Sterling Smith:
Two robbers who worked in cahoots
Always put together their loots.
But when she decided
T’was not well divided
She pulled out his hair by the roots.
When it comes to discussing our roots
My family has heated disputes
Most say we come from royalty
And express their utmost loyalty
Since grandpa was the “King of Old Coots”
There’s a woman who’s hot for old coots
Of the Court; wants to fondle their roots.
To get into the briefs
Of Supreme Justice chiefs,
All the judges must first drop their suits.
My 5th graders have divergent roots
With good and bad attributes
Joe said “Jimmy farted”
Then most of the class departed
I replied, “Please say, “JIMMY TOOTS”
She decided to dye her own roots
With a colour & time that it suits
But out fell her hair
Much to her despair
Now she’s bald when she’s wearing her boots
I accessed “ancestry” to find my roots
I have unusual habits and strange pursuits
I love to haul freight,
go out to sled and skate
It seems my forefathers were Alaskan Malamutes
change of word for better meter
When it comes time to “do” my roots
I put on a pair of army boots
Then I don a shirt
which has seen its share of dirt
And proceed to squirt the walls with “Blonde Beauts”
The primary season imputes
That party embraces its roots.
The clarion sounds,
Now send in the clowns;
Who will be the Sarahs and Newts?
Bottle-blondes strutting out with their roots
On display for some sexy pursuits,
Find a welcome reaction,
From recruits seeking action.
This is clear from their steely salutes.
Social climbing, she found, drew her hoots
‘Cause her forebears were camp prostitutes.
With those D.A.R. swells
Looking down on such “belles”
She’s now trying to touch up her roots.
Grandpa has military roots
And has been honored for his attributes
He’s a fine looking man
Who thinks he’s still in Japan
So when he sees anyone, he still salutes
not a duplicate
Grandpa has military roots
And has been honored for his attributes
He’s a fine looking man
Who thinks he’s still in Japan
So when he sees anyone, HE SALUTES
The florist and barber in cahoots
Were planning to pull out by the roots
Dead flowers and hair
But this Montana pair
Turned out to be no more than Buttes
All my dates have uncivilized roots
Not one of them has respectable pursuits
Call them klutzes
Or even Putzes
They’re all a bunch of galoots
There are white-collar crooks wearing suits,
street walkers, and rowdy old coots,
bank robbers, dope dealers,
bootleggers, fake healers–
all found while pursuing my roots!
A blonde, touching up her dark roots
Forgot how peroxide dilutes
She lost all her hair
Which doesn’t seem fair
Now it’s trendy with those in cahoots
An Irishman tracing his roots
Followed their trail to Beirute’s
Where he found that his genes
Led to pirates, not Queens
So he went back to saner pursuits
(Not in contest, but I didn’t know where else to put it)
These lim’ricks are fun, but egad!
They began as a whimsical fad
Now I wake in the night
With these rhymes in a fight
To see which one will first drive me mad
I never defend my family’s roots
Even with gossip of their dubious pursuits
I say, “Mama made spaghetti
Dinner was always ready
And Daddy always wore Armani suits”
needs one more word to be a limerick:
All my dates have uncivilized roots
Not one of them has respectable pursuits
Call them klutzes
Or even putzes
They’re all a bunch of blatant galoots
As I was pulling out some nasty roots
I noticed a stench near the veggies and fruits
I discovered an owl
Whose odor was foul
He said, “Sorry, Mam, but I’ve got a case of the toots”
When I recall my family roots
My parents set down absolutes:
“Study for every test”
“Always try your best”
“Don’t mention family in mental institutes”
She orders two beers (simple roots)
And on her footrests, sets her boots.
Then when a male “spider”
Breathes deeply behind her,
Whoops! Stool on his foot: back she scoots :)
From Phyllis Sterling Smith:
A Scotsman named Ian McKloots
Played bagpipes that skirled squawky toots.
One day at last
Kilts at half-mast
He disclosed all his Manly McRoots.
Spurred on by loud whistles and hoots,
Eyes popping, the rowdy mob roots
For the glitzy stripteaser
Who’s quite a crowd pleaser:
Red sequins adorn crotch and boots.
Catting Around
Said he, languidly, When it suits,
I’m inclined to explore my deep roots
As a feline royale
And a male femme fatale:
My name? Of course, Sir Puss in Boots.
It’s one of the well-traveled routes
To celebrity hollers and hoots.
There was Mae West and bustles,
Now Kim/Nikki hustles
With the sight of spectacular glutes.
If you should go searching for roots,
And you dig, and you dig without boots.
Your feet may get muddy
With ancestors cruddy.
It’s best not to dig up the brutes.
I question a voter who roots
For the tally of feculent fruits
On the elephant ticket.
What a baffling thicket
Of blustering arrogant suits.
Local flavor:
They were down by the river Deschutes
Off a trail, near the Juniper roots.
In the heat of their tryst
He looked up and was pissed
When a dog ran away with with her boots.
Don’t explain different routes
To hubby, or they’ll be disputes
Let him get lost
At any cost
At the road block, you’ll have a few hoots
One more from Phyllis Sterling Smith:
The gypsy thought back to her roots,
The drumming, the thrumming of lutes.
She thought of the dancing,
Of joyously prancing,
The tramping and stamping of boots.
My plants have colossal roots
They’re always growing new shoots
Aunt Jane ate a berry
Now she’s abnormally merry
She couldn’t discern the peels from the fruits
not a duplicate
No need to defend you family’s roots
Even if there’s gossip of “dubious pursuits”
Just say, “Mama made spaghetti
Dinner was always ready
And Daddy wore Armani suits”
Hate Traffic? Search alternate routes,
And eliminate road rage disputes.
But what if they’re worse?
Then holler or curse
Out Google for painful commutes.
The hippie went back to his roots,
And opened a store for the cutes.
With no clothing propriety,
And amazing variety,
He called the place “Whatever Suits”.
Thanks so much everyone for another fun week of limericks. This Limerick-Off is officially over. And the winner is…
Congratulations to the Limerick of the Week Winner and the Honorable Mention Winners: Limerick of the Week 215.
But you can still have lots of limerick fun because a new Limerick-Off has just begun: Limerick-Off Bone or Trombone.