A new series of (non-acrostic) limericks produced in response to various prompts.
These will appear on Saturday mornings wherever possible.
Let me know what you think.
The trophy for winning the race
Only goes to the one in first place
In vain I have beckoned
The car that came second,
He’s hanging his head in disgrace.
Our lives are controlled from on high
By the gods of commerce in the sky.
They’ll see that life lurches
From purchase to purchase
Till we meet in the great buy and buy.
I don’t know if I can sustain
These things that I cannot explain.
Can’t keep it together
When even the weather
Is constantly giving me rain.
It’s so hard to make a selection
Of who should win in the election
It’s like turkeys gobbling
When they start their squabbling
And leads just to mass disaffection