The gift that keeps on giving

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!”