In abject contrition duly vow to send my $9.95 per month to pay for my eco-sin indulgences to Iowahawk. And if you believe that, you can join me on Athos's "9-day Celebrity-Grave Tour" that begins at Graceland and ends at Anna Nicole Smiths' grave in the Bahamas. Only $2,995!
An Anglican curate in want Of a second-hand portable font Will exchange for the same A photo (with frame) Of the Bishop-Elect of Vermont.
The Modernist's Prayer
O God, forasmuch as without Thee We are not enabled to doubt Thee, Help us all by Thy grace To convince the whole race It knows nothing whatever about Thee.
Transcribed from The Oxford Book of Comic Verse, edited by John Gross.
I like the second one! The first one seems like an arcane, "had to be there" kind of in joke!
Like the following!
That Massketeer Anglophile Ath Has taken an odd sort of path With his wry verse by Knox And his Campbell plaid socks, But at least there's no Sylvia Plath!
To be sure you will have your little joke at my expense, Porthos. I would never stoop so low. Or rather, give me a moment to cook one up. However, I thought of Ernest Angley once and wrote:
A faith-healer once grew most volatile For his flock found he had no hair follicle He flew straight out the door When his toup hit the floor But his flock found the whole thing most jollicle!
When I was at Duke, the Rev. Bob Young (Meth.) was the Chaplain to the University and was renowned for his melodious, deep voice in the pulpit at Duke Chapel. I wrote the following on an achingly boring and sleepy Sunday afternoon staffing the Div. School Library front desk:
There once was a prominent preacher Whose voice was his dominant feature In Fall when it came time He'd pray before game time And sit free in his favorite bleacher
Ah, the blessed days of expending cerebral energy on doggerel - past glory and all that.
But, let's see: trouble rhyming with 'Porthos', eh? Okay, just a try.
There once was a teacher named Porthos Whose garden lay outside his doorpost He saw left over rocks, Strained carrying them blocks Now his borders are neat in the foremost
Good going! I gave up on Porthos at the end of the line and was trying to do something with Mahler:
Poor Porthos, who posts with his Mahler in an effort to make himself taller
or use pallor, or squalor, or valor or something like that . . .
As you can see, didn't get very far with that.
The kind of limericks my dad taught me were like,
There once was a _________ from _______ Who ______ ___________ __________ _____ Well, ___ ______ ______ _____ ____ And ______ ______ ______ ______ ____ So _______ _________ _________ ________ _______ !
9 comments:
In abject contrition duly vow to send my $9.95 per month to pay for my eco-sin indulgences to Iowahawk. And if you believe that, you can join me on Athos's "9-day Celebrity-Grave Tour" that begins at Graceland and ends at Anna Nicole Smiths' grave in the Bahamas. Only $2,995!
Applying the two-fer rule and speaking of humour:
Two Limericks by Ronald Knox:
Exchange and Mart
An Anglican curate in want
Of a second-hand portable font
Will exchange for the same
A photo (with frame)
Of the Bishop-Elect of Vermont.
The Modernist's Prayer
O God, forasmuch as without Thee
We are not enabled to doubt Thee,
Help us all by Thy grace
To convince the whole race
It knows nothing whatever about Thee.
Transcribed from The Oxford Book of Comic Verse, edited by John Gross.
I like the second one! The first one seems like an arcane, "had to be there" kind of in joke!
Like the following!
That Massketeer Anglophile Ath
Has taken an odd sort of path
With his wry verse by Knox
And his Campbell plaid socks,
But at least there's no Sylvia Plath!
To be sure you will have your little joke at my expense, Porthos. I would never stoop so low. Or rather, give me a moment to cook one up. However, I thought of Ernest Angley once and wrote:
A faith-healer once grew most volatile
For his flock found he had no hair follicle
He flew straight out the door
When his toup hit the floor
But his flock found the whole thing most jollicle!
Is that scapegoating?
No, not really.
I tried to do one about myself, but it's really hard to find words that rhyme with Porthos.
My dad taught me a a huge number of limericks when I was a lad, but they are unrepeatable in polite company.
This just in. Aramis' latest email to you/us bounced, Ath, so I tried to forward it. Did it work?
I got it, and replied. Thanks, Porthos!
When I was at Duke, the Rev. Bob Young (Meth.) was the Chaplain to the University and was renowned for his melodious, deep voice in the pulpit at Duke Chapel. I wrote the following on an achingly boring and sleepy Sunday afternoon staffing the Div. School Library front desk:
There once was a prominent preacher
Whose voice was his dominant feature
In Fall when it came time
He'd pray before game time
And sit free in his favorite bleacher
Ah, the blessed days of expending cerebral energy on doggerel - past glory and all that.
But, let's see: trouble rhyming with 'Porthos', eh? Okay, just a try.
There once was a teacher named Porthos
Whose garden lay outside his doorpost
He saw left over rocks,
Strained carrying them blocks
Now his borders are neat in the foremost
Not elegant and a bit strained, but it'll do.
Good going! I gave up on Porthos at the end of the line and was trying to do something with Mahler:
Poor Porthos, who posts with his Mahler
in an effort to make himself taller
or use pallor, or squalor, or valor or something like that . . .
As you can see, didn't get very far with that.
The kind of limericks my dad taught me were like,
There once was a _________ from _______
Who ______ ___________ __________ _____
Well, ___ ______ ______ _____ ____
And ______ ______ ______ ______ ____
So _______ _________ _________ ________ _______ !
You get the picture!
Yes, of course. My limerick that shall not be named had 'Nantucket' mentioned. Nuff said.
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