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Double Dactyl VI
Jacobin-smackobin Jean-Paul Marat took in Bathtime most leisurely; Loving the soak,
It soothed ev’ry problem Dermatological, But Corday came creeping; Caused him to croak.
(Submission) A mariner hailing from Kish / Encountered a woman, half-fish / Ichthyologically-speaking / He always was sneaking / A few extra bites of that dish.
Thank you ieatedthepurpleone for this tasty bit of verse.
You somehow manage to squeeze absolutely bizarre, yet wonderful, words into poems.
The Grand Tour
An affluent angler from Kent Embarked to the main Continent, But in using his rod, He never caught cod, So how come it came back so bent?
The Grand Tour II
There once was a boy from Antwerp,
Who'd taken much joy in the slurp
Of pussy, hirsute,
And when finished, to boot,
Would always conclude with a burp.
The Grand Tour III
There was a young lass out of Buda
Who'd spend ev'ry hour in the nuda
Ever the best,
She'd fucked half of Pest
In many an act all the cruda.
The Grand Tour IV
There is a young barmaid from Brest,
Who can't tell you east from the west,
But when car'nal direction
Leads to an erection,
She's ever so pleased to ingest.
The Grand Tour V
An incorrigible cad out of Wales Indulges in nighttime travails, And o'er green dales and valleys, Keeps impeccable tallies Of all the young Welsh girls he nails.
The Grand Tour VI
At The Hague in the land of the Dutch A girl gives that topical touch To each diplomat Until they go splat; They call her "The Eurozone Crutch."
The Grand Tour VII
In Bonn, lives a kinky concoctor (You must try her once 'fore you've knocked her) She'll gladly play nice, If you'll only scream thrice: "Please tie me up, Fräulein Doktor!"
The Grand Tour VIII
A lascivious lass from the Border Who can drink a whole barrel of porter And southward go reiving While orgasmically heaving... You think that would fill out your order?
The Grand Tour Finale
This post concludes the refined limerick batch
Ieatedthepurpleone kindly dispatched.
With a sigh in our hearts and minds in the gutter,
We'll patiently wait 'till you write another.
Poignant ponderings on the poetic process from ieatedthepurpleone
Thank you for having those placed
And posted with admirable haste
Any post that is dealing
In sexual healing
Should never be made go to waste.
~
They're many who'll try to exploit us
For talents in verse so adroit, thus
when blessed with a gift
That brings such a lift
Use it for rhyming 'bout coitus
~
I rhyme for the joy, there's no doubt
Perhaps a few lines will have clout
But in verse about sex
I'm a Rhythmus Rex
Who aims to stay in, not pull out
~
Disclaimer
* All views in this verse, here expressed
Unless otherwise somehow impressed
Span from crass down to queerer
But aren't a true mirror
And are meant to be taken in jest.
In this city of York, old and new If there's one thing that makes me say "ew," It's transiting nightly Through seas so unsightly Of hands deep in back pockets blue.
Horsing around
Welcome back: ready, willing and able Your rhymes all pent up in the stable
With which Catherine the Great
I hope won’t try to mate
(Or was that just the stuff of sex fable?)
An explanatory note
Higgeldy, piggeldy
Catherine of Russia, was
Up to no good again,
Flown from her bed
To stables in search of
Equine-imious pleasure.
Delivered by men?
Neigh: thoroughbred.
Elegy to a few lost lines
My computer broke at work last week And ne'er before was poet rent: Despairing such prodigious loss Of verse that spanned a continent... ...or more. So many pages passed, So many trisyllabic turns of verse Were any even built to last? That I'll never know is worse...
so this one actually creeps me out entirely...
Way down the old road Portobello
There lives a lascivious fellow
Who deals in antiques
But is known on the sneak
To pinch bottoms, exclaiming "Oh hello!"
Image by Tiffany Ford
Double Dactyl XXXVIII
Higgledy-piggledy Leo Fibonacci Pisan math genius born Century Twelfth. With Arabic-Hindu Number-sequences, he Surely evinces his Place on the shelf.
Don't Forget to Come Up For Air
Higgledy-piggledy Cunnilinguistically, Staying down longer is Not a small task And if she's reclining With Rubenesque lining Be close in reach of an oxygen mask.
Ode to a roommate with a inter-borough commute to the tip of Manhattan the day of this storm
O captain, my captain! Have you sailed for Ferry South? Do foam-tipped waves nip at your knees? Does salt spray slake your mouth? Whence came you? Fair Sunnyside? Where sun it shines no more? Would you've not preferred to stay Ensconced behind home's door? And when all is drenched and over And waters calm to glass, Times Square subway station Will still surely smell like ass.