A mysterious text message showed up on my cellphone yesterday:
There once was a gal named Meps
Who passed the awesomeness test
She has a birthday
And all I can say
May it be one of the best!
I have a “dumbphone” with no keyboard, but I laboriously typed this response:
Hey, your limerick-writing is slick,
And you thought you would play a fun trick.
An anonymous rhyme,
To my cell phone, this time:
But I figured it out: It was NICK!
He won’t be able to fool me again. I saved his number in my list of contacts under “Limerick Nick.”
Up ahead in the road, what is that?
And we swerve so it won’t go “kersplat.”
Then we stop. I run back,
Find it’s just what I lack,
It’s a perfect-fit Panama hat!
On my recent trip to Quintana Roo, Mexico, I didn’t buy myself a single souvenir. I did, however, bring back the cutest Panama hat you ever did see! With the help of my friend and driver, Philip, I rescued it from the middle of the freeway and have been wearing it ever since.
According to my Spanish dictionary, “jipijapa” is finely woven straw, and the term for Panama hat is “sombrero de jipijapa.” Sadly, the tag in my sombrero de jipijapa says, “Made in China.”
This word once described her: Poquito.
But this bug, with her massive libido,
Must have slept with a cow,
For her offspring are now
Too huge to be called mere “mosquito.”
Nick sails Valkyrie, peaceful, serene,
With the engine turned off, no machine,
Breaks the stillness, the quiet,
Til he creates a riot,
With his blender, which burns gasoline.
With a sound like a loud chainsaw roar,
Our Lake Union’s not peaceful, no more,
“Margaritas,” I say,
“Over two miles away,”
It’s Saint Nick, giving alms to the pour.
We went out on Flagrante Delicto to watch Duck Dodge (for you non-Seattlites, it’s a very silly sailing race) last night, and were greeted in limerick form by Blender Boy Nick. Here’s a picture of Valkyrie’s crew (don’t ask me how Nick can steer with this many people in the cockpit!).
The theme for last night’s race was “Bastille Day Night,” which inspired these clever sailors to install a guillotine. Now I know where to put one if I ever need one.
Our captain for the evening, buttoned up against the weather in his MG-B. He says that at 30 mph, the rain just goes over his pith helmet, and he cleverly pulls out an umbrella at stoplights.
If your five hundred friends each could count,
As one-tenth of your life, the amount,
Is your age: FIFTY years!
Dump some friends now, poor dears,
Do the math — it’s an old-age “discount.”
In other words, if you only had 490 friends, you’d be 49 again.
(I know, I know, I’d be the first one off the list!)
We bought bottom paint, gooey and thick,
And we hoped that it would do the trick,
It was sold as “deluxe” —
It cost TWO hundred bucks,
‘Cause we didn’t want sea life to stick.
And that should be the end of the story,
But the grasses adhered in all glory,
Yes, it’s worse than I feared,
For her fuzzy green beard,
Means she now needs a depilatory.
Dis’ order’s called O.C.R.D.:
The patient can never be free
From rhymes in her noggin.
Her best bet’s to login,
And share them for all folks to see.
I can’t stop writing limericks…and this hilarious article explains why: OCRD.
My poor brain’s going nuts, it’s frenetic
As I run though the words, alphabetic.
But this thing that I do,
Well, my Dad does it, too,
So my gift — or my curse — is genetic.
Sometimes limericks run around in my head until I write them down. This email from my Dad, which I received first thing this morning, reminds me that I am not alone in my affliction:
“This kept running around in my head last night,
so I had to get up and put on paper. Hugs, Dad
Marg’s homonyms are soulfully smooth,
Of this I fully approve;
But her limericks are sweet,
Filled with Her Dancing Feet,
They’re keeping us all in the groove!”
As dear Flutterby hung on her rode,
We both got in our dinghy and rowed,
To our bikes, which we rode,
Down a nice, level road,
Meanwhile, Margaret composed this, Our Ode.
The problem with limericks is that sometimes they chase me down and refuse to leave me alone. This was one of those. “Go ‘way,” I said, but it didn’t. It followed me on my bike for 5 miles. It’s not even a proper rhyme, just a bunch of homonyms.
We found in our mailbox a letter–
Inside, a surprise! Even better!
A tiny flat boy,
To bring us much joy.
‘Twas Stanley, the Airmail Jet-Setter.
Stay tuned for more photos and stories of Stanley’s visit to Beaufort and environs. He was an excellent boat guest.