Okay, so I’m not real inspired.
Over themes of interest I’ve perspired.
But my rhyme scheme and meter
(Like my 7 inch peter)
I hope will soon be admired.
I know that art is conceptual
And writing is oft intellectual.
But must I explain
In language so plain
That lim’ricks should be simply sexual?
Seven inches is average, they say.
More or less, here and there, what the hay?
But if it’s too big, don’t brag.
For it might make me gag,
Cause I go for it all when I play.
Says Hippie with star in his name,
Auth’ring limericks should never bring shame.
Use “felching” to shock,
“pussy,” “cooze,” “cunt” and “cock.”
Or your poetry will just seem too tame.
Though inches I truly admire,
That ain’t what kindles a fire.
It’s the breadth of your scope
Here on the Straight Dope,
That shorts out my tingly live wire.
these aren’t mine either:
There once was a caveman named Dave
Who found a dead whore in his cave.
He said with a grin,
as he slipped his meat in,
“Just think of the money I’ll save”.
I pulled that one off of a MUSH somewhere.
There was a biker mama named Dot
Who lived off of pig shit and snot.
When she couldn’t get these
She’d eat the green cheese
That grew on the sides of her twat.
And this one came out of an Easyriders from the 80s… So THAT’s what those remaining brain cells are being used for…
-dook
Nah…I ain’t into censorship…but PLEASE try to original or at least funny, not just disgusting.
For the others I must admit this:
Some made me laugh (nearly piss)…
Keep at it folks:
Both good & bad jokes…
Then you’ll not have to read trash like this.
.
Your electric response caused reflection:
It’s not (as men think) the erection.
The truest parameter
Is neither length nor diameter
But honesty, trust, and affection.
It’s late now, so I’ll be risque.
Don’t care if you’re straight, bi, or gay.
I’d love the sensation
Of mutual elation
If we all had a roll in the hay.
Affection is good, this is true.
Trust and love, those are very nice too.
But TN*Hippie, my dear,
I’ll say to you here,
Seven inches? Yep. That’ll do.
There once was a lady from Texas
Who wondered just what the facts was
“Despite what they said
About us getting laid
I can’t seem to find where the sex is”
(an old one)
There once was a man from Peru
Whose limericks ended at line 2.
(Another, in a similar vein)
There once was a man from Verdun.
Granted, those two didn’t involve the word peter. The only other limericks I know make me slightly nauseous to tell.
Along came a newbie named Elvis,
used a whole eight posts to tell us,
He couldn’t work “peter,”
In poems with meter,
We pray he’s better with his pelvis.
A gay double agent named Fawcett
Spurned the panties, the bra, and the cawset.
He said, “No drag for me!
I just want to be
The Spy Who Came Out Of The Closet.”
Persephone’s comments were revealing,
And, in fact, I think, quite appealing…
I got the hard “seven”
That’ll send her to heaven
Quivering, moaning, and squealing.
Hey all you cool guys and gals
I thought we were loveable pals
So send in a rhyme
At any ol’ time:
The Goods, The Bads, The Banals.
matt made it perfectly clear,
he craved no one who wore a brassiere.
all his friends and cohorts,
wore BVD shorts.
and took all the flak in the rear.
There once was a man named Magruder
Saw a girl in the nude, and he wooed her
The girl thought it crude
To be wooed in the nude
But Magruder was shrewder, and screwed her