A 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.
As a means of artistic expression,
Architecture is a fine profession.
If a building is small
Or incredibly tall
Is left to the expert’s discretion.
I really do not give a fig
If you-know-who’s wearing a wig,
I really don’t care;
If he has no hair
I know his brain’s not very big.
A man was once forced to explain
What business he had on the train.
He started to brick it
Cos he had no ticket,
I guess he’s in trouble again.
The natural order of things
Says I should be born without wings;
But when in a plane,
It comes back again;
And oh, how my happy heart sings.
Until now, my life has been blighted
By various ills I have cited;
Today, a new jab
Came out of the lab.
No wonder I feel so excited.
There are two accepted ways to pronounce the word wassail, /’ˈwɒseɪl/ and /’wɒs(ə)l/.
I’ve covered both.
I’ve never been one for spiced ale,
Afraid that my calmness might fail;
But I picked up the jug
And poured a full mug
Of last year’s prize-winning wassail.
Twas Yule, and the revellers’ jostle
Gave voice to the doubting apostle.
He may not have grieved
But even believed,
Had he taken a draught of old wassail.