If there’s a better way to close out a lazy Saturday evening than by quoting a few verses from G. Legman’s definitive volume of limericks, the cleverly dubbed The Limerick, well, Mister, I don’t know what it is.
And don’t tell me, I beg you, lest you disillusion me on the subject of best ways to close out a lazy Saturday evening . . .
I give you limericks:
There was a young man of Canute
Who was troubled by warts on his root.
He put acid on these,
And now, when he pees,
He can finger his root like a flute.
The cross-eyed old painter McNeff
Was color-blind, palsied, and deaf.
When he asked to be touted
The critics all shouted:
“This is art, with a capital F!”
There was a young man from Nantasket
Who screwed a dead whore in a casket.
He allowed ‘twas no vice,
But thought it was nice,
For she needed no money, nor’d ask it.
There was a young fellow named Chubb
Who joined a smart buggery club,
But his parts were so small
He was no good at all,
And they promptly refunded his stub.
There was a young maid of Boston, Mass.
Who stood in the water up to her knees.
(If it doesn’t rhyme now,
It will when the tide comes in.)