Some
Limericks
by Bruin Fisher
I've always liked limericks, usually
the naughtier the better. So every so often I try my hand at writing
one. Here is a selection of the results:
It was cramped for the crew of a tank.
It was noisy, and dark, and it stank.
One guy made a mistake,
Thought he'd grabbed the handbrake.
And he gave the gun loader a wank.
This one I wrote after reading a news
report, I think from Australia, of a man who was stopped by police
for speeding, while filming himself masturbating, and high on
something.
While speeding, on weed, this mad guy
Films himself parting his fly.
The cops flag him down
Yelling 'Stop that, you clown!”
He can't, and comes hard,
fast and high.
King Edward II is generally understood
to have been homosexual, and in love with Piers Gaveston, who was
apparently what my grandmother would call 'a girl no better than she
should be'. In other words, a manipulative gold-digger. Their
turbulent relationship caused a lot of trouble with Edward's father,
and his wife, and the whole kingdom.
A
report reached the court: “It appears
That
Edward and Cornwall are queers!”
The
king made a scene -
Claimed
he did love his queen;
But
the queen that he loved was his Piers.
Two
limericks about surnames. The first was inspired by the name of the
BBC reporter, Tom Geoghegan. It's a name with Irish origins, and it's
pronounced 'gay-gun'. You'll need to know that to make sense of the
limerick.
I'm stuck with the surname of
Geoghegan,
A name that goes back to times
Peoghegan.
Once, just for a laugh,
I pronounced the first haugh
On
its own and was Geoghe for a Deoghe, Man!
At the wedding of friends, boy to boy,
We wondered whose name they'd employ.
Speculation was trounced
When the vicar announced:
Roy
Fitzalan, and Alan Fitzroy.
There
was a light-hearted 'Talk like a Pirate' day a while back, and a
writer's forum that I follow got into the spirit of the thing in a
big way. I contributed the following limericks. Note that Charlie
Cochrane and Alex Beecroft are the names of two of the other authors
who participated.
Messrs Morgan, and Bonny, and Teach
Did
disport with a cabin boy each.
They each thought it best
Not to
use the Crow's Nest
But to roger his boy on the beach.
Grim
Blackbeard, the last of his breed
Committed a dastardly deed
His
practice heretical
(albeit parenthetical)
Was to sprinkle his
crew with his seed.
The
feared Cap'n Charlie Cochrane
Swore he'd never be tempted
again
After Dread Pirate Bee-
Croft suggested that he
And
his mate should try sexual pain.
The dread Pirate Beecroft
alone
Is the scourge of the high seas, I own.
With his bo's'un
at night
He cavorts with delight
And the whole crew can hear
how they groan.
The
next few deal with the common problem among older men, prostate
trouble. For the first of these I have to apologise, nay grovel, to
my dear friend DesDownunder, who is the butt of this joke. He has
broad shoulders (he's big everywhere that counts, so I'm told!) and
will not doubt take this affectionate joshing in good part. And to
put the record straight, he's not nearly as old as the limericks
imply, I have it on good authority he's well under a hundred years of
age. A mere stripling.
Our Des, who's a hundred years old
(Or, roughly that age, so I'm told),
Gets up for a slash
Runs a thirty yard dash
Thrice nightly, and always wins gold.
The guy has to look after me,
He must - I'm his prostate, you see.
The doc gave a prod
(Felt like his mate's rod)
And declares that I'm A1 healthy.
“Lift your knees up!” the doc said,
and pressed
His finger inside me, no less.
Ignoring my pride
He stroked side to side
And I spurted all over his chest.
A doctor called Coriolanus (wait for
it!)
Wanted to test me for gayness.
He got me disrobed
And he prodded and probed
Till I called out “you've found it –
my... armpit!”
Tchaikovsky was almost certainly
homosexual, and lived a tortured life because he could not express
himself freely. He formed a close attachment to his young nephew Bob,
which was the inspiration for his sixth symphony, known as 'the
pathetique'. Sadly he died less than a week after its first
performance.
Peter Ilych wrote music unique,
His
last piece he called 'Pathetique'.
Inspired by his 'Bob',
He
completed the job,
But the poor man was dead in a week.
We got on surprisingly well
When we camped on the Cumberland Fell.
My friend whispered “Shall us
Cavort with your phallus,
My
anus, this condom, and gel?”
Shake hands; I'm your new friend –
your penis.
You'll soon find what fun I can benis.
When you're down and alone
When there's no-one else home
You
and I can let fly with all freenis.
When you hug him and kiss him
goodnight,
Hold him close, chest to chest very
tight.
Get your arms round his back
Slide your thumbs down his crack
In each palm cup a cheek in delight.
Your Mum always said it ain't right
To wear trousers so terribly tight.
I can see at a glance
What you've got in your pants
And in light of the sight, I just might!
... and on a related subject:
If your pants let your stiffy show
through,
Tie it down with some string! (Don't
use glue).
For a man in a kilt
Whose erection won't wilt,
A good heavy sporran should do.
This
last limerick is not 'all my own work'. The original version is in
the public domain, penned by that prolific genius, 'anon'. I have
taken his work and bowdlerised it mercilessly, resulting in my
gay-themed variant, which I like to think works better.
A
plumber, young, randy and free
Was
plumbing his mate by the sea.
Said
the lad, “Cease your plumbing,
“I
think someone's coming!”
Said
the plumber, still plumbing, “It's me!”
I
hope you've enjoyed these and are not scandalized by them. I also
hope I have not sullied my reputation irreparably!
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