The poster known only as trade
Was suddenly gone for a day
It was not my choice
To silence my voice
But because I had to earn my pay
There once was a man from the moon
Who came to the earth for a noon
He took one good stare
At the state of affairs
And decided he can’t get back to soon
There once was a wandering minstrel
sporting foolscap and bells and some tinsel
his madrigals sweetly
he warbled repletely
whilst traveling about in a tumbrel.
He met a penurious jester
while working a gig in Gloucester.
These two roving bards
practiced spoofs and canards
and with them their audience did pester.
They left in great haste from that town,
the Mayor ousted singer and clown.
They slunk into hiding
and came back reciting
until in a Pit they were thrown.
The moral of this story, I should
Make it clear so it is understood.
When the crowd starts to jostle
the Players, it’s hostile!
Get out while the getting is good!
Obviously, we missed ya **trade[/],
Your wit - the razor sharp blade,
While you was o’er yonder,
your fate we did ponder,
I certainly hope you got laid.
I cannot believe my foul verse,
In shame, my soul does emerse,
Best wishes my friend,
I intended to send,
Tell me – was she a nurse?
Again, with verse I do blunder,
My morals are all torn asunder,
To “be out by morning”,
is the Spider warning,
Or hell will break loose like all thunder.
sigh… hopeless, huh?
I’ll try one last time to be good,
Like anonymous dopers all should,
My halo ahines bright,
I prove through the night,
That even when bad, I’m still good. 
Just because I don’t proof,
I publish another small goof,
“Correct it at once”,
is yelled at the dunce,
Good typing is simply aloof.
Obviously, we missed ya trade,
Your wit - the razor sharp blade,
While you was o’er yonder,
your fate we did ponder,
I certainly hope you got laid.
I cannot believe my foul verse,
In shame, my soul does emerse,
Best wishes my friend,
I intended to send,
Tell me – was she a nurse?
Again, with verse I do blunder,
My morals are all torn asunder,
To “be out by morning”,
is the Spider’s warning,
Or hell will break loose like all thunder.
sigh… hopeless, huh?
I’ll try one last time to be good,
Like anonymous dopers all should,
My halo ahines bright,
I prove through the night,
That even when bad, I’m still good.
While strolling with Marcel Marceau
two aspiring mimes wanted to know
“Will you give us direction?
Your art is perfection!”
The great one said ______________.
[glitch]dead[/glitch] :eek:
There was a faith healer of Deal
Who said, "Although pain isn’t real,
If I sit on a pin,
And it fractures my skin,
I dislike what I fancy I feel.
There once was a young man named Hall
Who fell in the spring in the fall.
'Twould have been a sad thing
Had he died in the spring,
But he didn’t–he died in the fall.
A fly and a flea in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, “Let us flee!”
Said the flea “Let us fly!”
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.
There was a young lady of Niger
Who smiled as she rode on a tiger.
They came back from the ride
With the lady inside
And the smile on the face of the tiger.
I fear I have lost inspiration
and I’m wracking my brain in frustration
To provide us with kicks
I’ll do a quick fix
Ready-mades require no perspiration.
And though they are “author unknown,”
They are better, by far, than my own.
and until I return
from my daily sojurn,
those limericks I hope you’ll condone.
The Spider and Styler did create
Both verse and an atmosphere great
I feel I’m at home
Not far shall I roam
From the thread that I never can hate
Ah Styler, thanks for the prayers
It shows that you do truly care
Since I am betroved
And hopelessly in love
No nurses will handle my wares
There once was a two fisted Drinker
With beer and with wine he did tinker
When mixing the two
He was heard to eschew
“I’m beered not as wine as you’d think’a”
Gosh, trade, don’t make a fuss,
Like Underdog, we’re just ‘little ole us’,
Until Saturday,
this game I can’t play,
As I take a short work hiatus.
A friend called me and asked me to fish,
To join him, he was was his wish,
So today and tomorrow,
with not any sorrow,
I’ll eat from a bag, not a dish.
“I’m off to go fishin’” said he
Just leaving the Spider and Me
Don’t worry 'bout us,
And I won’t make a fuss
Since I am in good company
There once was a Fisherman stout
Who battled with one giant trout
He pulled this way and that
But the fish was a brat
And that trout ate that man, have no doubt
There once was a buzzard, aesthete
whose life seemed somewhat incomplete.
This scavenging vulture
loved books, music and culture
much better than any dead meat.
So she flew off in hopes of obtaining,
in ballet some classical training.
She learned jete and plie
in an avian way
and acquired some skills in refraining.
At her first audition she did make
a lasting impression, (no mistake)
but for all of her trouble
they made her stunt double
for the star cygnusette of “Swan Lake.”
With plumage all powdered and white
and black mask and make-up just right
she entered on cue
but errantly flew
so was passing out programs next night.
There have been ugly duckings that mustered
swanly attributes, pearls greatly lustered,
that’s in fairy tale fun
but when all’s said and done,
A vulture is always a buzzard.
While composing that feather-brained post
I’ve decided now that is the most,
the longest I’ve written
and I am admittin’
I think that my mind I have lost.
Although there’s no need for confession
these limericks are my new obsession
this addiction’s not fiction
but scurrilous affliction
for which there’s no hope of redemption.
Once you start…
There once was doctor McBreeth
Who in undressing lady patients was brief
They thought it was strange
That he should arrange
All this just to look at their teeth!
There once was a prominant Madam
Who help higher office than Adam
For she was the first
To quench Adam’s thirst
For he wanted 'em, and she had 'em
A pink unicorn once was ensnared
by unchivalrous knaves who had dared
to enslave and inspect her
no one could protect her
thus very poorly she fared.
Her rosy hue started to fade
She foundered; her hooves became splayed
Her fetlocks were shorn.
Then her beauteous horn
was ground to a healing pomade.
When after a few years she died,
a few who remembered her cried.
But most said “Of course
she was only a horse.”
What was she? (for you to decide)
Since then in this modern world wide
many mysteries have withered when plied.
When too closely dissected
their magic defected
'Tis best to let unicorns hide.
The last limericists asked each other
“Is there no lurking sister or brother
to assist our endeavors
but don’t be too clever
just add to these verses another.”
My posts, which are long and obscure
are filling this page, and it’s clear
since Styler’s gone fishing
tradesilicon is wishing
that others would join us back here.
'Ole Scylla with a mind like a trap
eyed Spider women taking a nap
moving quietly and quick
he moved in fast and slick
but only got for his troubles a slap
While bitingly greatly debatin’
Scylla into this thread came a-skatin’
I hope that he’ll stay
and a while with us play
so to him this verse I’m dedicatin’.
Spider legs are not useful for slappin’
she has been too industrioustly wrappin’
those legs* round a pen
*(there are many of them)
but bitng has been known to happen.
[bares fangs]
The “forgot to hit preview” bug bit
the poor spider, she errantly writ
typos and misspellings.
She hopes that’s not quelling
Any limericist’s urge to submit.
Invited to come here and post,
I see that my skills are at most
barely on par
with others who are
sufficiently skilled they can boast.