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There once was a writer named Rand

Who never feared taking a stand.

She staked out positions

And stocked up munitions!

The fireworks always were grand.

I know... the subject line is plural, but this is just a single limerick. Perhaps someone else has a limerick inside them, waiting to burst out!

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There once was slusher named Bissell

Who played his pump clear as a whistle

In a moment of artifice

He posted as Artemis

Which caused many an O'ist to bristle

There once was a dame named Barbara

Who angered a nasty grudge-harborer

She snuck out the door

During SOLOC4

And got narked on for smokin' a Marlb'ra

There once was a lady named Ellen

Quite adept at grammar and spellin'

She cut through the muddle

With notions so subtle

They often caused pain in my melon.

There once was a fella named Branden

His studly young arms he held Rand in

They tiddly-winkled

But when she got wrinkled

Branden abandoned the grandam


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A good man named Michael Stuart Kelly

Turned a cheek and was banished to helly

Rising up from the ashes

Contradictions he smashes

Now Gary Williams wants him on the telly

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Goodness, I just can't get away from them. My English teacher, on Friday, encouraged us all to write offensive limericks. But not many of us could think of anything. Perhaps if I watch this thread for long enough, it will rub off.

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That particular excess of zeal came from a post by Gary. Nothing's in the works (yet... - actually I did do some TV in Brazil. Hmmmmm...). btw - That was Kat's first limerick in life and I think her second or third poem. I admire her choice of subject matter enormously...


A young artist who calls herself Inky,

Who tries to appear a bit kinky,

Draws stranger and stranger

But her head’s in no danger:

She’s touchy and feely, but thinky.


Edit - Actually Tina is not a gushy-type girl, but she does get sentimental at times (which is what the term "touch-feely" means). I originally wanted the last line to be:

"She’s creepy and crawly, but thinky"

due to her er... macabre interests in vampires and skulls and all subjects vanitas, but it sounded too harsh for the poke-in-the-ribs nature of limericks. (Also, never ever, ever, ever, under no circumstance whatsoever, even if the world is ending, in any manner, meaning don't do it at all, call a beautiful young lady "creepy and crawly" right out of the blue.) Still, if that last line can be understood in a "Morticia Adams" kind of way, it is a much more appropriate line.

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We have some fine poets around here

My simple rhyme comes nowhere near

the fine verses you write

in the still of the night

So I'll be your fan and just cheer

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I've wanted ever since March 5 to post this, in particular for Jonathan's enjoyment, since Jonathan I know has read and loved a novel of Samuel R. Delany (pronounced de-LANE-y), the novel Dhalgren.

When he was in high school Delany met and became special friends with a young poetess (subsequently a noted poetess) named Marilyn Hacker. Though Delany was homosexual by basic impetus, he could function heterosexually, and did thus with Marilyn. She became pregnant, and they married. (She then miscarried; later she became pregnant again and they had a daughter; eventually -- and amicably, as far as I know, since they were still friends last I heard of their life stories -- they divorced.)

In an autobiographical book The Motion of Light in Water: Sex and Science Fiction Writing in the East Village, 1957-1965, he tells this tale:

[pg. 82.]

25.25 [He numbered the vignettes:]

I am not a poet. Nor have I ever thought of myself as one. (A love for reading poetry, which I have, is not the same as a talent for writing it, which I lack.) But, like all young writers, from time to time I would try my hand at it--none of it, despite how hard I woked on it, very good. Marilyn's response to one of my early attempts about this time (and it set me chuckling in our four dark rooms for an hour) was:

There was a young man named Delany

whose verse wasn't overly brainy.

When you start to get with him,

he completely drops the concept of rhythm,

and after a while he doesn't even bother to rhyme.

I have never considered myself any sort of poet since. The difficulties of prose are quite enough.




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