TennHippie’s too quick on his feet,
For me and my verse to compete.
It takes me all day
To find what to say;
So tomorrow’ll be the next time we meet.
Look at the acronyms and you’ll know
That for me it really is time to go.
I posted that last one
(And it was a fast one)
Then wondered why it was a no-show.
You know that it’s high time for bed
When you can’t even hit the right thread!
I’ll post one last time,
Hoping this one will rhyme,
Then go lay down this drain-bamaged head.
TennHippie’s prior post we can’t see.
In another thread, of all places to be.
Says he must go to bed
To find his lost head.
Sounds like a personal problem to me!
I’ll say this with sly bedroom eyes:
I find DIVEMASTER’s wording unwise.
Whenever in bed
I’ve gotten some head,
It’s been not a problem, but a prize!
You’ll note from my previous quips
I’ve a thing for feminine lips.
There’s nothing so sweet
As kissing face to feet
And back again, with several side trips.
Tennhippie, you made me rock,
With all of your sexual talk,
I told my dear sweety,
And he said, “hot sheety”,
And not it just hurts when I walk.
LET ME RE-TRY THAT:
Tennhippie, you made me rock,
With all of your sexual talk,
I told my dear sweety,
And he said, “hot sheety”,
And NOW it just hurts when I walk.
I’m glad to hear my lines are read;
And from them, some reactions led:
Whether a chuckle
Or loosened buckle,
It’s happiness that I want to spread.
Tomorrow night I shall take a peek,
But then I’ll not be seen for a week.
An order from God?
Yeah, right! (wink and nod)
It’s holy Southern shores that I seek.
I truly love my Tennessee,
The Smoky Mountains are dear to me.
But once a year
(Or twice, my dear!)
I get my hillbilly ass to the sea!
I’m a son-of-a-beach for South Carolina;
That low-country grub is quite divine-a.
I love the motion
Of the ocean,
Warm and wet: Mother Earth’s vagina!
If, metaphorically, that will fly,
Her eyes would be the rainbowed sky.
Her nice firm breasts?
The mountain crests!
A hopelessly romantic Nature-boy, I.
There once was a Tennessee Hippie
Who took a Carolina trippie;
Got back to this thread
And found it quite dead;
Or at least in a state not so zippy.
There once was a poet quite cheery
Whose audience seemed to grow weary
Of his doggerel trite
So late at night
When humor wanes and eyes are bleary.
Perhaps to limerick’s roots I’ll go
Whence puns and naughty words do grow:
Wince I should say
To baudy word play
Like pussy or cock; do it or blow.
Perhaps to limerick’s roots I’ll go
Whence puns and naughty words do grow.
Wince I should say
At baudy word play
Like pussy and cock; do it and blow.
test
Sorry about the posting twice.
That is not my favorite vice.
I checked it with haste,
Thought my rhyme was a waste;
More patience would surely suffice.
I thought that this was a great topic.
Am I just poetically myopic?
Limericks aren’t trash:
Ask Ogden Nash!
And at least it ain’t frilly and foppic.
The limerick is a five-lined verse
That never filled a poet’s purse.
It’s popularity
Is a rarity:
For the better limerick is often worse.
There once was a thread about changing sexes;
And once we are switched, how it affects us.
I really don’t care
What is “down there”
As long as I’m not way down there in Texas.