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The Obligatory Limericks Game Reincarnated
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And so it begins....
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the impression it's all done by twits
A young lady from Burton-on-Trent
Had a figure that seemed heaven-sent
But closer inspection
Revealed imperfection
By then, though, I'd come and she'd spent.
The dreams that she wove in her loom
Were threads of both despair and gloom
But a streak of pure gold
Her future foretold
Once she'd promised the first from her womb
The tiger had vertical stripes
So he bought some nice baby wipes
After a scrub and a rub
Applied to her cub
The stripes turned to spots of three types
It's never too late to give up
Trying to housebreak your pup
So don't let it sit
and just widdle and spit
But the Brummies would say you were tup
The morning of Mr. Magellan
Was spent with Roddy Llewellyn
And this disparate pair
Hunted Lionel Blair
To what end I am leery of tellin'
Driving in ovals is daring
To go topless on beaches is baring
But diving with sharks
When completely starks
Will wake people up, keep'em staring.
Whatever you like is a sin
From sex to a bottle of gin
But a nice cup of tea
Spiked with pure THC (tetrahydocannabinol, that is...)
Makes Hamish and Dougal just grin.
All's good in true moderation
Excess may cause botheration
But a bit here and there
And a pint everywhere
May help to prevent constipation
There's little that's new anymore
We've seen all this stuff once before
The Cycle of Being
Can have one agreeing
That reincarnation's a bore.
There's a man who lives right on our street Well done on that last one, everyone.
Who is said to possess two left feet
His dual sinisterity
And absent dexterity
is a hoot when his two left knees meet
My efforts to drain the Black Sea
Were quite abysmal, you see.
From Romania's edge
I started to dredge
But global warming now does it for free
Today at a quarter to three
I'll have honey for afternoon tea
And then - should I risk it?
A raw egg; just whisk it Yuk.
Then ask her to lap-dance with me
I stare out the window all day
I just want to go out to play
My red vuvuzela
For Nelson Mandela
'Cos he's no musician, they say.
My cursor has turned big and white
And the rest of the screen's black as night
The CD-ROM's beeping
The CPU's sleeping
Hidden textPhotoshop has crashed again.
Just Windows – no reason for fright.
While watching the Test on the telly
Which Waitrose now have near the deli
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