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The Obligatory Limericks Game Reincarnated
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And so it begins....
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I shall bite my own nose
While reciting some prose
As I tell the jury to adjourn.
This curly old wig's a right pain
I need a new straight one, that's plain
Slap-head, that's me
But you have to agree
That it covers my cranial stain
For the antepenultimate time,
I seek postinceptory rhyme
A preposterous demand
Which I cannot stand
Will I soon have to do this in mime?
My mum can't remember things now.
Sadly, she's lost her know-how
She's now ninety-eight
Thinks that she's Johnny Speight
So shouts silly old moo to my cow
I've a craving for pickle with Spam
With some be-boppa-lu-a-whop-bam
But McDonald's has stuck it
In the janitor's bucket
So bring on Le Filet O'Lamb
If you're stuck on the M25
Give thanks that at least you’re alive
Four lanes of pollution
(There's an electric solution)
With no guarantee you'll arrive.
Eight more months, then a chance to be free
From the curse of the Witch of Tiree
This anticipation
Has gripped our proud nation
Except for one guy in Dundee
When death, plague, and war rule the land
We’ll take stock, take up arms, take a stand
And then take the piss
Something like this
By forming a naff one-man band
You cannot go on like this, mate
You’ve got far too much on your plate
Inadequate crockery
Will spoil your fine frockery
That's one way to ruin a date.
Please look after your own mental health!
Or madness will grab you with stealth
Try a dip in the sea
Or a Sudoku spree
You'll feel much better after a twelfth
And now, for the worst of the snows
And the shiniest ruddy red nose
As you home, with the gifts
Sourced from dumpsters and thrifts
The swizzle-stick’s mine, I suppose?
Blue Monday approaches apace
T'will match the hue of my face
And other parts too
Shall I show them to you?
I will do so with exquisite grace.
In Port Talbot, on Fridays, 'tis said
You can shag or avoid or get wed
'Cos down on the dock
In an old toilet block
Is where the priest rests his head.
A young lady from Kingston-on-Hull trad
Dressed up as a boatman from Mull
Gave lifts 'cross the river
For which men would give 'er
The fare. (This limerick’s dull.)
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