Definitely Limericks: Bo-Bq

Would a pussy, an owl and a goat like
To put on a waterproof coat (like
A jacket of green)
And all sail a tureen?
They would if their vessel were boatlike.

With apologies to Mr Lear.

The boat train goes trundling to port,
Taking folks to their island resort,
But its vacuum brakes shear,
And the driver can’t hear
Sailors cry from the pier, “All abort!”

So you reckon my body is creaking?
Is it utter perfection you’re seeking?
Well you won’t find it here—
It’s decrepit, I fear,
And I’m worried that part of it’s leaking.

All these oddments are destined to lurk
In my oeuvre, or body of work,
Every overthought line
Doomed to fade and decline
In a corpus the ages will shirk.

When Sirius goes to the toilet,
Do serious crises embroil it?
Are constellate Dog Stars
Incontinent Bog Stars?
(I know they’re white flowers. Don’t spoil it!)

In those Bollywood movies, they sing
And they shout, and they dance in full fling—
They’re the toast of Bombay.
...It’s Mumbai now, you say?
Mutter... “Mumblewood” ain’t the same thing.

He’s a serious, praiseworthy guy,
Fighting evils that make people die,
So I hope that you too
Like what Bono can do
(Although I liked him more as The Fly).

“It’s bonzer!” is whatcha might say
If yer ’avin’ a bewdiful day—
When there’s nothin’ but smiles
On everyone’s dials,
And yer ’ole bloody life is okay.

How’d ya manage to get it so wrong?
You’re a boofhead! A drongo! A nong!
A whacker! A fool!
I said come to the pool
Wearing thongs, not a pole-dancer’s thong!

My bookshelves are groaning; it looks
Like my library’s cloning more books.
It’s a burden indeed
To have so much to read—
Curse the Muse and her babbling brooks!

You’re a spinner of yarns who regales
Your daughter with all your travails.
You’re a boomerang bender!
Watch out, or you’ll send ’er
Away with your tallest of tales.

As he listened to Mama and Dada,
The baby grew madder and madder.
“These ickle wee booties
On his footsies are cuties!”
On cue, diddums emptied his bladder.

The booze artist looked pretty muted.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, “Feelin’ too newted?”
“Not pissed,” said this loser.
“Just passed by the boozer...
Got breatho’d. The booze bus. I’m rooted.”

I say, Cambridge freshers—let’s hop
On our bikes and head off to the bop!
Who can bear to revise
When the glittering prize
Of a disco tempts punters to stop?

Look, why don’t you take a bo-peep
At the shed, where the shivering sheep
Have been shorn of their wool—
Maybe three whole bags full—
And are so bloody cold they’ve lost sleep.

Bosnia and Herzegovina
Once sported a happy demeanor,
But suffered a fate
I’m averse to relate...
Sarajevo’s Olympics were cleaner.

The judge on the bench had his way,
So you’re headed for Botany Bay.
New South Wales is a gaol
That can make a heart fail
Say goodbye to your life, not g’day.

The convict was ashen and grey;
He was due for a lashin’ that day,
And a dozen, he knew,
Could be, once they were through,
Twenty-five here in Botany Bay.

A “Botany Bay dozen” was twice as many.

Though for bowling outdoors he’s a fool,
Mon père has an iron-clad rule:
He’ll play in Verona,
But never Pamplona—
He’s heard that they run with the boules.

The boules that they use in pétanque
Are metallic, and land with a clonk
When they’re tossed at the jack
Made of wood, which goes crack—
C’est le clonk et petonk et bedonk.

I’m a bovver boy. ’Ere on me feet
Are me bovver boots. Don’ they look neat?
Wotcher mean, are they levver?
O’ course! I would never
’Ave bovvered wiv less on this street.

Those tapes of St. Elsewhere I’ve got,
That orange-glazed seventies pot,
These toys of the kids’,
Those jars with no lids:
I’m a bowerbird, hoarding the lot.

An Australian term, after the native bird of the same name.

As British stars go, he’s a biggie.
A kook in a crazy-haired wig, he
Reworks his disguise
With each album: surprise
Is our Dave’s middle name (also “Ziggy”).

Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust hairstyle was modelled on a kabuki lion wig, but actually he lacquered and blow-dried his own hair. Screwed-down hairdo, but boy could he play guitar.

David Bowie is dead, a Blackstar
Up in space. Ziggy’s played his guitar.
Half the world is laid Low
Now that all of us know
Bowie no longer Is, yet we Are.

One of the most significant pop stars of the 20th century, David Bowie (born David Robert Jones) died of cancer on 10 January 2016, two days after his 69th birthday and the release of his 25th album, Blackstar. An artist to the end, Bowie kept his cancer diagnosis secret while confronting his impending death in the songs of his final album, which is already being favourably compared by critics and fans with such career highlights as Station to Station, Ziggy Stardust and Low. A career retrospective exhibition by London’s V&A museum, David Bowie is, has been touring internationally since 2013.

A mother and malt-whisky-trialler
Set foot on the island of Islay
To sample some Bowmore
Until there was no more—
The 12-year-old sure did beguile ’er.

Lawrence Hargrave invented a kite
In the shape of two boxes. In flight,
It would gracefully sail
On the wind with no tail,
Like a brick made of styrofoam might.

A DJ from Austria thought he
Could make Julie Andrews sound naughty.
Now the hills are alive
With “The Edelweiss Jive”—
BPM of a hundred and forty.

She’s a girl who won’t whisper, she’ll yell.
She won’t ask your opinion, she’ll tell.
She’s a ball-busting witch,
But don’t dare call her “bitch”:
The correct form is “BQFH”.

Bitch Queen From Hell.

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