Definitely Limericks: Ba-Bd

Playing records, the part I loved most
Was to flip ’em and sample the host
Of odd B-sides thereon.
Will those days soon be gone,
Now that seven-inch singles are toast?

In Britain, “the top of the pops”
Means a song that you’ll see in the shops
From London to Tayside—
The number one A-side
Of singles that haven’t been flops.

Ba is a town in Fiji—
Not terribly famous, you see—
But though rather forlorn,
It’s where Father was born,
So it’s terribly famous to me.

He stops as they walk to the car.
“You’re one in a million, you are.”
A breeze starts to blow.
“I... love you, you know.”
The woolly-haired temptress says “baa”.

“The critics may all be discounting
My hopes, but I’ll soon be amounting
To more than a cabbage,”
Said Professor Charles Babbage.
“Analytical engine, start counting!”

Charles Babbage (1791–1871), professor of mathematics at Cambridge University, is considered the father of computing, although his design for a mechanical “analytical engine” was never built at the time.

Babirussa: An East Indies pig
That has canines prodigiously big
Curving out of his snout—
If you see ’em, wig out,
’Cos the pig gets indignant, you dig?

As her parent, I know that I oughta
Respect what life’s lessons have taught her,
And how much she’s grown,
But for decades I’ve known
That she’ll always be my baby daughter.

Said Professor Erasmus Kildare,
When denied an Emeritus Chair
In Babyish Studies:
“You guys aren’t my buddies!
I hate you! I hate you! Not fairrrr!”

Sees the cards being played near the bar...
Now he’s wishin’ and hopin’ they are,
Say, a five and a four,
’Cos he knows he would score...
Walk on by, Mr Burt Baccarat.

Betrayal’s his favourite tack,
And he writes out of spite—mind your back.
If you value your life,
Watch his mouth and his knife:
He’s a backbiting, backstabbing hack!

Capt. JONES: We’ve been hit in the wings!
Gonna crash in Khe Sanh! [Alarm RINGS.]
All the chutes are gone, too!
Holy mother of... [CUE
BKGD. MUSIC: Adagio for Strings.]

There was a young hacker from Hammet
Who’d find an address and then spam it
With offers of cash,
’Til the server wou*t76cccccc
(Oh no. Where’s my backup, goddammit!)

The back an’ the sides of a swine,
Immersed in a bucket of brine,
Then smoked or jes’ dried,
Sliced thin an’ then fried,
Makes bacon. Mm-mmm, mighty fine!

“So, I went to the clinic today
The tortoise is cactus. They say
It’s too late for a vet...
Yeah, I’m pretty upset.
How should I know he’s in a bad way?”

On Edinburgh’s busiest street,
The tourists all blether “How neat!”
When a man in a kilt
Starts to wheeze at full tilt
On the bagpipes, while some of us greet.

In Scotland, to blether is to talk nonsense, while
to greet means to weep or grieve.

Jim McTavish, municipal baillie,
Would dance up a storm at a ceilidh:
He’d birl and jig
After takin’ a swig
Of a swally thit’s crakin and ale-y.

A baillie is the Scottish equivalent of an alderman. A ceilidh is a traditional dance; to birl (buh-rl) is to twirl or spin; a swally is an alcoholic beverage; and an ale thit’s crakin is nice.

I’m handing the waiter, Sareesh,
Some bakshish for bringing my quiche.
His comeback is strange:
He’s offering change!
It’s meant to be his greenback—sheesh!

What’s balanism? Capsules for cracks;
Stick a medical aid that attacks
Some disease by design
Where the sun doesn’t shine.
There’s your answer: the hole ball of wax.

Bal-inism is the use of suppositories.

The bald eagle, American raptor,
Now faces a challenging chapter:
Its range is reduced,
And its prey have deduced
Where to go to stay free of their captor.

“She’s a spiffing young thing, Jeeves, eh, what?”
“I regret to demur, sir; she’s not.
The young lady, I fear,
Is a trifle austere.”
“What nonsense, man! Balderdash! Rot!”

“I’ve a plan rather cunning, my lord,”
Ventured Baldrick, perusing my sword.
It was pointless, I felt,
So I gave him a belt
Round the shoulder—a fitting reward.

Baldrick: n. a belt worn over the shoulder to hold a sword on the opposite hip;
a witless idiot named after same. — Edmund Blackadder’s Dictionarie.

Thanks to stays in each corset, baleen
Once adorned every ballroom-floor queen,
Straining waists without fail;
Now it stays in the whale,
Where it tastefully strains its cuisine.

Thar she blouse!

One particular characteristic
Turned Pat from alive to statistic:
His interest in guns—
In particular, ones
In which he was the object ballistic.

Ol’ Cannonball Pat, futuristic
Propulsion fanatic: artistic,
But lacking in sense.
Putting up a big fence
So he’d stop himself? That’s optimistic.

Many lemurs eat tender bamboo.
So would I—and why not? Wouldn’t you?
It’s a nourishing stalk;
Needs no knife and no fork:
You just break a piece off, and then chew.

His life was cartoonish, replete
With hilarious scenes of defeat.
When he tried to walk tall,
He would meet with a fall
From banana skins left in the street.

He went down to the creek an’ he panned it,
Then, jes’ as he carefully planned it,
Gave all of his gold
To the bank fer to hold—
Where it all was done stole by a bandit.

Cap’n Processor started to gripe
As the bits all processed down the pipe:
“He’s a modem abuser,
Our byte-hungry user...
More bandwidth! He’s just loaded Skype!”

A bap is a small roll of bread
Here in Britain; it’s what you are fed
If you fancy for luncheon
Some savoury muncheon—
Though chaps nibble wraps now, instead.

Hold a barbie or two on your lawn
And yer wintertime blues’ll be gone.
Chuck a snag on the grill,
Crack a Tooheys, and chill:
Come an’ barbecue up a raw prawn!

A burly Murwillumbah copper
Came (socially speaking) a cropper
When telling his guests
Of his wrongful arrests—
By cripes, what a barbecue stopper.

A barbiton (bit like a lyre)
Is a pleasure to play—why not try ’er?
This instrument sings
When you strum Grecian things,
But it bites if the strings are barbed wire.

The blowies are buzzing that coot—
You can tell from his Barcoo salute.
He’s been waving all day,
But they won’t go away.
They must reckon his noggin’s a fruit.

In Dunedin, a beer-drinking student
Drank more than was actually prudent.
The eager young scarfie
Was soon feeling barfy,
Digestible contents protrudent.

Scarfies are uni students in Dunedin, NZ.

In Britain, the subject of weather
Brings colleagues and strangers together,
But one more refresher
On air and its pressure
And I’m at the end of my tether.

Barometry is the process of measuring atmospheric pressure.
Borometry is the process of discussing barometry.

I said to the fishmonger, Grundy,
“Good sir, do you have barramundi?”
“The tropical perch
Found in Queensland? I’ll search...
Nah, we ran outta that one on Sund’y.”

The instrument sounded all clunky;
The pegs on its barrel, too funky.
That organ rehearsal
Made peanuts of Purcell,
But that’s what you get from a monkey.

When the waters are wavy an’ bluey,
They find ’em a shoreline that’s chewy,
Take bites with their motion,
Digest in the ocean,
And spit up a barrier. Ptooey!

A barrier spit is a long barrier built up by the waves that runs parallel to shore and protects the waters behind it (like an island, but connected to the mainland at one end). Unlike a sandbar, its crest lies above the normal high water mark.

A smasher, by crashing, would mash ’er;
A slasher, by gashing, would trash ’er;
A dasher would pash ’er;
A flasher’d abash ’er;
But bashers, by fashion, would thrash ’er.

In Aussie slang, to “pash” is to kiss, which is a lot more fun than being bashed.

So they caught you outside in the nude
Doing something unspeakably rude
To Her Majesty’s statue
While screeching, “Take that, you!”?
Then basically, Bishop, you’re screwed.

His devices make Ivan content,
But concerned once their power is spent.
When his iPhone gets flatter, ’e
Charges the battery
Till it’s 100%.

“I’m telling you, son, war is hell.
It was painful to shoot every shell!”
“Gee, pa, I’m intrigued—
Were you battle-fatigued?”
“No, I just couldn’t aim very well.”

Quit your dithering, Captain! Less talk!
Set your feet on the plank and then walk!
There’s a fate worse than death
If you waste one more breath,
And a fate worse than that if you baulk!

I was playing the sergeant at snooker,
When I spied on his hand a verruca;
So I reached in my pocket,
Withdrew a small rocket,
And blasted it with a bazooka.

Most viewers in Britain still choose
The impartial recounting of views
By the government station
Maintained by the nation:
Yes, this is the BBC News.

Do you think Bryan Adams, when he
Said he’d “Run to You”, meant to BC?
This heaven astounds
With its heart-stopping Sounds...
All the kids wanna Rocky, eh, B?

Before he was a somebody, Bryan Adams spent his summers waking up the neighbours in North Vancouver. (Can’t stop this thing we started—please forgive me.)

I ponder the saints and infinity,
The angels, the devils, the Trinity:
You see, my degree
Is a holy BD.
Heaven knows, we could use more Divinity.

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