Limericks of The Third Millennium
Comic Philosopher
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
There once was a lawyer named Darrow
Who claimed man evolved from a sparrow.
This upset the vicar
Who put down his liquor
And shot
A mystical wizard named Merlin
Could contact strange creatures and vermin.
His magical wand
Passed over a pond
And out hopped a frog who spoke German.
Most blokes are a football fanatic.
A touchdown makes timid souls frantic.
Just take old gramps;
He’s one of the champs,
For he still sacks grandma in the attic.
Arturo Toscanini
Met the ghost of Paganini.
Art bought him lunch
Upon the hunch
He wouldn’t eat his wienie.
Three cheers for the Paleolithic!
Those mammoth steaks were terrific!
Faith then did persist
Now rumors exist:
God’s only a man-made horrific.
The shyster acquired a new auto
By swiping a mark’s winning lotto.
When freed from jail
He promptly skipped bail
For “STICKING THE MAN” was his motto.
Impotency conjured a rhino.
Aphrodisiacs! He could buy no
Artifacts such,
He was out of touch
For he was a horny, old wino.
Paul Bunyan moved the northern border.
His blue ox helped lay brick with mortar.
But his grandest feat
Lay down on his feet
And his mighty, bunion disorder.
The tiger peered out of his prism
To study the odd humanism.
On a feline hunch
He conjured up lunch
Of this tasty, protein organism.
Geometry was a dull loner
Till psychology worked him over.
His circle, annoyed,
Became paranoid,
For there’s trouble around every corner.
Caligula, for some reason,
Consorted with devil and demon.
Jupiter said,
“He’ll not die in bed,”
Which spiced up the upcoming season.
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About the Book
This little book of my original limericks does not propose to be anything really new in the overall scope of poetry. It does however intend to be novel to the present age in so far as its purpose is concerned. The author believes it is high time to return to much of the tradition of the past and to follow their artistic format whereby we can begin producing and encouraging art and artists that are worthy of something other than the trash heap. Today the bulk of the arts, both popular and “serious”, are mired in quicksand that is sucking our very spirits under. These limericks of mine may not be great poetry but they are at least an attempt at sound poetry bound together by rhythm and rhyme. I hope, futhermore, that this might spark an interest among all in the noble arts about such things as promoting original, traditional poetry which has been christened anathema by the overcooked eggheads of our age. Whatsmore, I would also like to hear from anyone who espouses my cause. To do so simply write to the P.O.Box address in my book. A S.A.S.E. would be greatly appreciated.
With hope and thanks
William Shuckspeare
About the Author
William Shuckspeare was born on January 1st, 1939 of English and Lithuanian descent at Youngstown, Ohio. After graduating high school he did a hitch as a boilerman in the U.S. Navy where he served mainly in the Mediterranean Sea. After being honorably discharged he stopped by his town's local college for a couple of lively, raucous years. He next lived the life of a vagabond hitchhiking and exploring towns across America. He finally returned to his native Youngstown where he ended up as a driver-salesman for most of his life, peddling such goodies as soft drinks, potato chips, bottled water, pastries, etc. At present he is pursuing his hobbies, such as writing bizarre literature, composing antiquated piano music, along with overeating forbidden fruits. He is currently trying to survive on tranquilizers and Social Insecurity.