by Bruin Fisher
I've always liked limericks, usually the naughtier the better. So every so often I try my hand at writing one. Here is a selection of the results:
It was cramped for the crew of a tank.
It was noisy, and dark, and it stank.
One guy made a mistake,
Thought he'd grabbed the handbrake.
And he gave the gun loader a wank.
This one I wrote after reading a news report, I think from Australia, of a man who was stopped by police for speeding, while filming himself masturbating, and high on something.
While speeding, on weed, this mad guy
Films himself parting his fly.
The cops flag him down
Yelling 'Stop that, you clown!”
He can't, and comes hard, fast and high.
King Edward II is generally understood to have been homosexual, and in love with Piers Gaveston, who was apparently what my grandmother would call 'a girl no better than she should be'. In other words, a manipulative gold-digger. Their turbulent relationship caused a lot of trouble with Edward's father, and his wife, and the whole kingdom.
A report reached the court: “It appears
That Edward and Cornwall are queers!”
The king made a scene -
Claimed he did love his queen;
But the queen that he loved was his Piers.
Two limericks about surnames. The first was inspired by the name of the BBC reporter, Tom Geoghegan. It's a name with Irish origins, and it's pronounced 'gay-gun'. You'll need to know that to make sense of the limerick.
I'm stuck with the surname of Geoghegan,
A name that goes back to times Peoghegan.
Once, just for a laugh,
I pronounced the first haugh
On its own and was Geoghe for a Deoghe, Man!
At the wedding of friends, boy to boy,
We wondered whose name they'd employ.
Speculation was trounced
When the vicar announced:
Roy Fitzalan, and Alan Fitzroy.
There was a light-hearted 'Talk like a Pirate' day a while back, and a writer's forum that I follow got into the spirit of the thing in a big way. I contributed the following limericks. Note that Charlie Cochrane and Alex Beecroft are the names of two of the other authors who participated.
Messrs Morgan, and Bonny, and Teach
Did disport with a cabin boy each.
They each thought it best
Not to use the Crow's Nest
But to roger his boy on the beach.
Grim Blackbeard, the last of his breed
Committed a dastardly deed
His practice heretical
Was to sprinkle his crew with his seed.
The feared Cap'n Charlie Cochrane
Swore he'd never be tempted again
After Dread Pirate Bee-
Croft suggested that he
And his mate should try sexual pain.
The dread Pirate Beecroft alone
Is the scourge of the high seas, I own.
With his bo's'un at night
He cavorts with delight
And the whole crew can hear how they groan.
The next few deal with the common problem among older men, prostate trouble. For the first of these I have to apologise, nay grovel, to my dear friend DesDownunder, who is the butt of this joke. He has broad shoulders (he's big everywhere that counts, so I'm told!) and will not doubt take this affectionate joshing in good part. And to put the record straight, he's not nearly as old as the limericks imply, I have it on good authority he's well under a hundred years of age. A mere stripling.
Our Des, who's a hundred years old
(Or, roughly that age, so I'm told),
Gets up for a slash
Runs a thirty yard dash
Thrice nightly, and always wins gold.
The guy has to look after me,
He must - I'm his prostate, you see.
The doc gave a prod
(Felt like his mate's rod)
And declares that I'm A1 healthy.
“Lift your knees up!” the doc said, and pressed
His finger inside me, no less.
Ignoring my pride
He stroked side to side
And I spurted all over his chest.
A doctor called Coriolanus (wait for it!)
Wanted to test me for gayness.
He got me disrobed
And he prodded and probed
Till I called out “you've found it – my... armpit!”
Tchaikovsky was almost certainly homosexual, and lived a tortured life because he could not express himself freely. He formed a close attachment to his young nephew Bob, which was the inspiration for his sixth symphony, known as 'the pathetique'. Sadly he died less than a week after its first performance.
Peter Ilych wrote music unique,
His last piece he called 'Pathetique'.
Inspired by his 'Bob',
He completed the job,
But the poor man was dead in a week.
We got on surprisingly well
When we camped on the Cumberland Fell.
My friend whispered “Shall us
Cavort with your phallus,
My anus, this condom, and gel?”
Shake hands; I'm your new friend – your penis.
You'll soon find what fun I can benis.
When you're down and alone
When there's no-one else home
You and I can let fly with all freenis.
When you hug him and kiss him goodnight,
Hold him close, chest to chest very tight.
Get your arms round his back
Slide your thumbs down his crack
In each palm cup a cheek in delight.
Your Mum always said it ain't right
To wear trousers so terribly tight.
I can see at a glance
What you've got in your pants
And in light of the sight, I just might!
... and on a related subject:
If your pants let your stiffy show through,
Tie it down with some string! (Don't use glue).
For a man in a kilt
Whose erection won't wilt,
A good heavy sporran should do.
This last limerick is not 'all my own work'. The original version is in the public domain, penned by that prolific genius, 'anon'. I have taken his work and bowdlerised it mercilessly, resulting in my gay-themed variant, which I like to think works better.
A plumber, young, randy and free
Was plumbing his mate by the sea.
Said the lad, “Cease your plumbing,
“I think someone's coming!”
Said the plumber, still plumbing, “It's me!”
hope you've enjoyed these and are not scandalized by them. I also
hope I have not sullied my reputation irreparably!