Limericks for Meg


Limericks for Meg Sorick
(with many apologies)

Lying sleepless at night in my bed,
with my pillow tucked under my head,
unable to sleep
and tired of damn sheep.
I start writing limericks instead.

Now, of limericks I’m really the king.
Mine flow like a song you can sing.
I tap out the beat
with fingers and feet
and they end with a zing and a ping.

My Teddy Bear still sleeps with me.
He’s as cuddly as cuddly can be.
The hands of the clock
and their dickory-dock,
take us from two until three.

On the floor a family of mice
think our bed is warm, comfy, and nice.
I must watch what I say
because they won’t go away:
if I speak they’ll be in in a trice.

My cat sits quite still on the mat
then says “I think I smell a rat!
Go get your gun!
Hurry now! Run?
I bet it’s a big one, and fat.”

A rat, that’s what she said.
I hastily got out of bed,
ran down stairs
saying multiple prayers,
and tripped, and fell on my head.

I got back to my feet in some pain,
went up to the bedroom again
Teddy Bear, mice and cat,
were tucked in, fancy that,
and snoring away like a train.

I decided to sit on a chair
and pretend they just were not there.
I picked up my pen,
wrote limericks again,
and started to tear at my hair.

My inspiration now was all wrong.
Rhyme, rhythm, and wit had all gone.
The hands of the clock
sang tickety-tock
as the dawn came creeping along.

Now here comes the end of my story,
I’m afraid it’s a little bit gory.
I beat on that bed
till the wild-life was dead
and I’d covered myself in false glory.

You can see from my limericks, Meg,
how they all show a fine turn of leg,
with neat little feet,
a strong rhythmic beat,
all borrowed and ripped off a peg.

The End