I also practise the piano Which is made from string and Meccanoshort "a" 'Twould not be ungallant To say that my talent Ain't mini or micro; it's nano.
That blasted tromboner's now tinklin' A piano. That bugger's no inklin' He's a Les Dawson bum When he's not George Chisholme As for me my ear drums are a-wrinklin'I hasten to add all persons referred to in this limerick are fictitious and that any resemblance to persons living, dead or undecided is a most unfortunate coincidence. Besides, my tromboning pianist doesn't know anything about meteorology or chemistry. He's an insurance salesman and he lives in Chipping Sodbury.
I thought I might repair my watch But my skills made the job one big botch All the springs, cogs and wheels Scattered under my heels It seems I'm a watch botch sasquatch.
There once was a milkmaid named Gretchen To say she was fugly 'twarnt stretchen' She eloped to Nantucket With her beau [and a bucket] So he'd have him something to retch in. (my apologies, it's the best I could come up with on the spur.)
I practice my trombone inside But I do leave the doors open wide So the the neighbours can squiz And see what a whizz I'm at doing strange things with my slide
Dear god has someone stuck a dart in Pablo's backside? No! He's startin' His etudes and scales. Amateur dentristry pales To that squealin' and screechin' and fartin'
A mate of mine played the trombone Down the line, from an old telephone The sound, like a fart, Went straight to my heart Like a dying man's sad final groan
He's not been now for four hundred years There are no more Othellos or Lears And Wives can't be merry For they come just to bury The rest is all silence and tears