What is the point of a Toby Jug?
With its grinning face ever so smug,
A tankard of jest,
In porcelain dressed,
The ceramic embodiment of a Mug.
What is the point of a Toby Jug?
With its grinning face ever so smug,
A tankard of jest,
In porcelain dressed,
The ceramic embodiment of a Mug.
‘Tis true that I cannot make porridge:
I’ve got a Milk and Oat shortage!
“With water and hay,
make some gruel”, say they,
“Because it has twice as much roughage’
To be or not to be, a question
To a nobler mind, a suggestion:
To die, to sleep,
to dream of sheep:
This is Hamlet in his depression
They say in Wales there’s nothing but rain,
Surely those that stay are insane?
For sunshine, you’ll be bereft,
The vowels have even left…
And only the the consonants remain!
A curious thing is the Limerick,
Its rhythm and rhyme a gimmick,
This one, I contrive,
the joke will never arrive
leaving you worried sick.
There once was a verse quite specific,
Compact, and a touch hieroglyphic.
It rhymed A-A-B,
Then B-A (Not C)
The famed poem: A limerick.
My Bluetooth speaker won’t pair,
It pretends that my phone isn’t there.
It hums and it bleeps,
Then silently sleeps,
with no ‘connection fanfare’.
In an abbey where monks chanted low,
One brother sang Alto for show.
He sang his plainchant,
With a piercing descant
Till the friar cried, “Brother —no!”