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The Obligatory Limericks Game
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When the Crescenters arrive at Rab...
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Are worn in the beard of the king
So let us cheer
And quaff lots of beer
And do ye olde "whoop-de-doo" thing.
Line. Drat.
The truth about Morecambe and Wise
Is they both shared the same pair of eyes
No-one could tell
save Eskimo Nell
Which joker was which, for a prize.
There once was a poet from Bonn
Who had lots of clothing to don
From her thong to her coat
and her little pet Stoat
Backwards strip-tease is a con!
If you are a fan of punk rock
You're locked in a timewarp, old cock. (Simons Mith) Quel espèce de con?
Such a '70's fad
You're worse than my dad
Whose tank-top and sideburns I mock.
Les mots vulgaires sont, ici, [rosie] j'suis tant choqué.
Je plaid coupable, tant pis. (nights) Well, at least someone got the joke. :-)
Par exemple, rupettes
Ou une bite à baguette
c'est chouette, quand nous faisons ceci. [rosie] what can I say, j'suis geeque.
The last one was lost in translation
No great loss (francophile masturbation)
When language gets screwed
And poets are lewd
We'll just leave to play Bifurcation.
Please start without me, I'm on leave/There once was a Lim'rick for sale
{And I've something that's hid up my sleeve / There's no chance of a sudden reprieve } / { Which came with a free pint of ale / Which was rather too old and too stale }
{Is this a dagger?; I'll produce it when/I'm doomed to remain; For fourty-eight hours}
{And a packet of nuts; It was Ruddles' best/The old man from Dover; Fresh blood was required}
Please start without me, I'm on leave
        And I've something that's hid up my sleeve
                Is this a dagger?
                        Or far Wagga-Wagga
                        Or an old Eton fagger
                I'll produce it when
                        I'm a master of Zen
                        The time's right, and then
        There's no chance of a sudden reprieve
                I'm doomed to remain
                        On this long-delayed plane
                        On a far darkling plain
                For fourty-eight hours
                        I must grade all these flours
                        I shall drink whiskey sours
There once was a Lim'rick for sale
        Which came with a free pint of ale
                And a packet of nuts
                        With a taste of goat butts
                        And some choice sirloin cuts
                It was Ruddles' best
                        Called Old Everquest
                        And stank of birds' nests
        Which was rather too old and too stale
                The old man from Dover
                        Who smuggled it over
                        Said "I'm glad it's over"
                Fresh blood was required
                        To make it inspired
                        To set it on fire

I'll have a go at the first one:

Please start without me, I'm on leave
And I've something that's hid up my sleeve
Is this a dagger?
Or far Wagga-Wagga
It's neither [or so I believe]
Left over from last New Year's Eve?

Please start without me, I'm on leave
And I've something that's hid up my sleeve
Is this a dagger?
Or an old Eton fagger
If so, then I must be naïve
Applying some fresh Ibuleve®?

Please start without me, I'm on leave
And I've something that's hid up my sleeve
I'll produce it when
I'm a master of Zen
And then, only then will retrieve
A state which is hard to achieve.

Please start without me, I'm on leave
And I've something that's hid up my sleeve
I'll produce it when
The time's right, and then
My state of mind you will perceive
You'll see why my name isn't Steve

Please start without me, I'm on leave
There's no chance of a sudden reprieve
I'm doomed to remain
On this long-delayed plane
Feeling sick with a strong urge to heave
With a cousin of Christopher Reeve

Please start without me, I'm on leave
There's no chance of a sudden reprieve
I'm doomed to remain
On a far darkling plain
With only this basket to weave
With piles of old timber to cleave.

Please start without me, I'm on leave
There's no chance of a sudden reprieve
For fourty-eight hours
I must grade all these flours
Amongst those who pillage and thieve
After which, a sponge cake I'll receive

Please start without me, I'm on leave
There's no chance of a sudden reprieve
For fourty-eight hours
I shall drink whiskey sours
It's by far the best way I can grieve.
At this rate I'll never conceive

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