Esther recently made another call out for limericks. Yesterday (or was it the day before?) the prompt was ‘wrong’, and since so many people find most of what I write to be, in many ways, wrong, she seemed to be calling my name.

I sent her a couple and, for the sake of appearances, present one of them again here. Though slightly altered in order to fight off boredom.

A note of explanation. I know it wasn’t yesterday or today that I wrote this and offered it to Esther. I found this in my drafts folder. Today. I must have forgotten to post it. Or perhaps I had a reason not to.

***

Is it wrong? Is it right? Is it rude?

For one to spent time in the nude?

If one is hot

I think certainly not

So much cooler than being a prude.

***

The words ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ may be taken to suggest double meanings. I will leave it to others to decide if that is appropriate.

I’ll grant you that it’s not 18th century poetry, as was suggested here. It’s a bit of a stretch to call it poetry at all.

As usual, it’s just whatever comes out of my head that requires the least possible effort. My life’s work has been something of a celebration of laziness and, in the end, I’ve not got much to say.

Thanks go to Kate, anyway, for shaking me briefly out of my slumber.

***

An epistle I can whistle

I’m just talking to the street

I can hum it, I can strum it

I’m just walking to the beat

A letter to the editor

Hello. I’m doing well

I’ve got these words inside of me

I’ve got a tale to tell

I’m praying what I’m saying

Might make some sort of sense

Did you hear me say it yesterday?

Was it past or present tense?

I’m so mad. A little sad

I’m so normal I could cry

A little song. A singalong

One more verse before I die

I’m grinning at the sunshine

I’m barking at the moon

My little rhyme is keeping time

Though I’m singing out of tune

Hear me mumble as I stumble

Watch me mix a metaphor

You can look. Please watch me cook

Because it’s you I’m cooking for

***

I don’t get involved with many writing prompts these days. I don’t really get involved in anything much around here anymore. I choose, instead, to just lurk in the shadows. But during such a lurk I did stumble across a Tuesday Writing Prompt and, even though Wednesday had already began, I decided to write a few lines – mainly based on the fact that it was advertised as only requiring 5-10 minutes of effort (coincidentally approximating my maximum attention span).

I had to post something, anyway, just to show that, even though my own midnight beckons and I hear the beating hooves as the horseman approaches, there may be life in me yet (though possibly not much poetry).

**

And now behold
A story told
Another page has turned
The sun has set
Have no regret
Your God is unconcerned
Behold the sky
A midnight sigh
The cosmos takes a breath
The sun will rise
No compromise
Each birth must end in death

**

I am a Puritan at heart, as I hope most of you realise, and am constantly reviled by the suggestive language I find thinly disguised within the works of others. I recently wrote to D.H. Lawrence insisting that he remove that virtual dictionary of smut, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, from bookstores worldwide. I am yet to receive a response.

In the meantime, closer to home, my vigilance in this regard uncovered another attempt to sneak something suggestive past me. Kate is a frequent offender and I sometimes despair over what sort of upbringing she must have had. I blame her parents.

You will note in her poem (admittedly, otherwise quite sweet, though it may be) that she deliberately leaves the word ‘plucked’ out on its own and rhyming with nothing, thus attracting more attention to it and encouraging idle minds to paddle into dangerous waters. You all know where I’m going with this, and don’t pretend that you don’t, but common decency prevents me from providing a more graphic explanation.

She was, as a result, firmly rebuked.

As I suppose you’ve heard

I’m a sucker for a word

I’m a plucker of the petals in a poem

So any mention of a plucking

Sends me dashing, darting, ducking

From the fear of where I think I’ll hear you goin’

I run from the obscene

So I insist you keep it clean

I am analysing every single letter

So when you suggest a pluck

I reply “you’re out of luck”

I was naughty once but now I’m getting better