There was a young fellow from Sparta
A really magnificent farter.
On the strength of one bean
He’d fart God Save The Queen
And Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
He could vary with proper persuasion
His fart to suit any occasion
He could fart like a flute
Like a lark, like a lute
This highly fartistic caucasion
He could fart a gavotte for a starter
Then fizzle a fine serenata
He could boom from his ass
Bach’s B minor mass
And in counterpoint, La Traviata
He was great in the Christmas Cantata
He could double-stop fart the Tocata
He could play on his anus
The Carlioanis
oof boom, er tum toodle, yam tada.
Spurred on by a very high wager
From an envious German named Bager
He proceded to fart
The complete oboe part
Of a Haydn Octet in B Major
His repetoire ranged from classics to jazz
He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas
With a good dose of salts
He could whistle a waltz
Or swing it in Razzammatazz
His Basso Profundo with timbre to spare
He rendered quite often with power to spare
But his great work of art
His Fortissimmo Fart
He saved for the March Militaire
One day he was dared to perform
The William Tell Overture Storm
But nothing could dishearten
Our spirited Spartan
For his fart was in wonderful form
It went off in a capital style
And he farted it through with a smile
Then feeling quite jolly
He tried the finale
Blowing double stopped farts all the while
The selection was tough, I admit
But that didn’t dismay him one bit
Then with ass thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed
And collapsed in a shower of shit
His bunghole was blown back to Sparta
Where they buried the rest of our farter
On his gravestone of turds
Are inscribed with the words:
To The Fine Art Of Farting, a Martyr
A horny young plumber named Lee
Was plumbing a girl by the sea
Said the girl, "Stop your plumbing
“I hear someone coming!”
Said the plumber, still plumbing, “It’s me!”
I used to have a big book of limericks that had that one translated into several languages, including Latin.
This one’s by Isaac Asimov (IIRC):
The limerick’s form is complex,
And its contents run chiefly to sex
It burgeons with virgins
and musculine urgins
And other erotic effex.
The limerick packs laughs astronomical
Into space that is quite economical
But the good ones I’ve seen
Very rarely are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical
Nymphomaniacal Jill
Used a dynamite stick for a thrill.
They found her vagina
In North Carolina
And bits of her tits in Brazil.
And whoever it was put in Edward Gorey limericks, you’re on to something:
There once was a woman whose stammer
Was atrocious, and so was her grammar.
But this was not improved
When her husband was moved
To smash in her teeth with a hammer.
There once was a curate whose brain
Was deranged by the use of cocaine.
He lead a small child
To a copse dark and wild
Where he beat it to death with his cane.
There lives a young couple in Hertz
Who are cousins, or so each asserts.
But their sex is in doubt
For they’re never without
Their moustaches and long flowing skirts.
How many dopers out there remember the classis Isaac Asimov book, Lecherous Limericks? Amazon says it’s out of print, but you might find a copy somewhere. I found it in a used book store quite some time ago, and couldn’t resist…
Here’s one…
Another young woman named Claire,
Would walk around perfectly bare.
Saying “All that I show
Are my publics, you know,
For my privates are covered in hair.”
There was a young man from Rangoon,
Who was born nine months too soon,
He had not the luck,
To be born of a fuck,
He was scrapped off the sheets with a spoon,
There was a young fisher named Fischer
Who was fishing for fish in a fissure
When a cod, with a grin,
Pulled the fisherman in -
Now they’re fishing the fissure for Fischer.
There was a young lady from Hyde
Who ate a green apple and died.
The apple fermented
Inside the lamented,
And made cider inside her inside.
There was a young woman from Wheeling
Who claimed she had no sexual feeling
Till a cynic named Morris
Simply touched her clitoris
And she had to be scraped off the ceiling.
There once was a soldier named Fisk
Who said, when the fighting got brisk,
“I’m sorry to say
that I cannot stay.
I’ve got only one *****”
There was an old man named Berthold
Who drank his beer in the cold.
As he lifted his cup,
♪ Never gonna give you up! ♪
Oh, snap! You’ve been limerick rolled.
Said Bill Clinton to young Ms. Lewinsky
We don’t want to leave clues like Kaczynski,
Since you look such a mess,
Use the hem of your dress
And wipe that stuff off of your chinsky.
There was a sultan of Algiers,
Who said to his harem, “My dears,
You may think it odd o’ me
But I tire of sodomy.
Tonight’s for you ladies.” (Loud cheers.)
A young lesbian from Khartoum
Took a gay fellow up to her room.
But they argued and fought
Over who should do what
And how, and with which and to whom.
The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher
Called the hen “a most elegant creature”.
A hen, pleased with that
Laid an egg in his hat
And thus did the hen reward Beecher.
Twas the scorn of the vicar, named Bings,
For heterosexual things.
But he burned with desire
For a boy in the choir
With a bottom like jelly on springs.
A swimmer whose clothing got strewed
In the breezes until she was nude
Saw a man come along,
And unless I am wrong,
you were hoping this line would be lewd.