As a brief diversion from lecherous Limericks, a lecherous Shakespearian haiku: My Love doth me wrong— But still, 'tis better than not doing me at all.
Time for a Christmas carol: Away in a manger, a child Was born and grew up meek and mild But when he turned thirty He got rather shirty And was nailed up for making folks wild.
We three kings of Orient are With these gifts we have come from afar Myrrh, frankincense, gold For we have foretold By the light of yon wandering star.