Definitely Limericks: Ca-Cd

He’d be mayor, would he, eh? I think not!
Does this Goose have the votes? Does he, what!
This cabbage-eating son
Of a cucumber! None
Should give journeyman tailors that spot.

This derogatory term for someone from a class or region stereotypically associated with eating cabbages dates back centuries. In Act II of Samuel Foote’s 1764 play The Mayor of Garratt, one character responds to a public reading of a letter from the candidate Timothy Goose—“a journeyman tailor, from Putney”—with: “A journeyman tailor! A rascal, has he the impudence to transpire to be mayor? D’ye consider, neighbours, the weight of this office? Why, it is a burthen for the back of a porter; and can you think that this cross-legged cabbage-eating son of a cucumber, this whey-faced ninny, who is but the ninth part of a man, has strength to support it?”

My cabbage-like sister loves soup,
Eating bowl after bowl of dull goop.
Its cabbage-like smell
Leaves me feeling unwell.
Now she’s serving up me a bowl. Poop.

Says the leather-faced lady, “Hey, you—
Can you lend me a spare Winnie Blue?”
Yeah, there’s nothing that Madge
Likes to do more ’n cadge
From a stranger a ciggie or two.

Caernarfonshire: county in Wales
That became part of Gwynedd, which fails
To explain all the facts
About each of these tracts,
But I’ll let some old bard tell their tales.

If your mater loves lettuce, don’t tease ’er,
’Cos this romaine salad will please ’er
Brute cravings with ease.
Ave Parmesan cheese,
Coddled egg, and some croutons: hail Caesar!

Despite its name, the Caesar salad is only somewhat Latin: it was invented in the 1920s by Caesar Cardini, an Italian restaurateur and chef in Tijuana, Mexico. There are many variations on the original recipe, whose other main ingredients were olive oil, lemon juice and Worcestershire sauce.

Fresh coffee, self-served with a smile,
Fine burgers and fries in a pile,
Pert checkout girls, cooks
Giving welcoming looks:
In my dreams, cafeteria-style.

The Highlands are heavy with stones
Piled neatly in mounds, where unknowns
Sometimes lie, sometimes not;
Sometimes wholly forgot.
Aye, this cairned land is riddled with bones.

Cairns, near the Barrier Reef,
Isn’t big, so I’ll try to be brief:
A tropical city;
The Daintree is pretty;
The salties could bring you to grief.

Gateway to the Cape York Peninsula, Cairns offers unparalleled opportunities for skin-diving, visiting the World Heritage Listed Daintree Rainforest, and being eaten by a saltwater crocodile.

Californios longed to be free
Of their Mexican rulers; their plea
Was for clear independence.
Their rancho descendents
Are now all Americans, .

The original Californians drove out their last Mexican governor in 1845. The United States claimed the territory during its war with Mexico of 1846–48, who formally ceded it just in time for the gold rush.

The tough, callused skin on my feet
Is because I walk round in the street
Without sandals or socks.
It can handle most rocks,
And in summer it copes with the heat.

A camelopard’s covered in spots:
His neck, for example, has lots.
This fellow’s been slotted
With pards (i.e., dotted),
But leopards will tie him in knots.

In case you haven’t guessed, he’s a giraffe.

My friend the photographer scoffed,
“Use a camera phone? Don’t be so soft!
They’re a fad, nothing big”—
Till at Blondie’s last gig
He saw tons of them waving aloft.

A chameleon whose skin was inert
Tried to blend with a branch till it hurt.
As his brow sweated beads,
He announced, “What I need’s
Camouflageable hide—or a shirt.”

On a road trip, our Dad knew that when
We would reach for the tape deck and then
Put in ours, he should scramble
For gentle Glen Campbell:
The right tone’s a cowboy, for men.

Singer of “Gentle on My Mind”, “Wichita Linesman”, “Rhinestone Cowboy”, and Many More!

He’s an actor of such extreme campiness!
All those double entendres—what scampiness!
I could slap his wee paws!
But I shouldn’t, because
It’s a guaranteed path to foot-stampiness.

The canny Canadian lynx
Looks askance at the bobcat and thinks,
“We could probably mate,
But I’m too overweight,
So he’ll think I’m a slob, not a minx.”

Though half the size of its European cousins, the Canada lynx is still larger than its relative the bobcat.

In the plural, these flicker their light
In the darkest recesses of night;
And when singular, too,
You will find that a new
Candelabrum can make a room bright.

The original singular/plural of candelabrum/candelabra has forked in multiple directions, much like the arms of the candelabra itself.

The candytuft, white, pink, or purple,
A blossom to make a bird chirp, ’ll
Make people peep too,
From Gibraltar right through
To the gardens of Constantinurple.

Most candytuft flowers come from Spain, but other species come from as far away as Turkey.

Cane sugar is made from the juice
Of the sugar cane, which can produce
Its sweet share of the stuff.
(Photosynthesis buff?
You can surely put this to good use.)

Sugar cane is one of the most efficient of photosynthesizers.

Yellow blooms, with your delicate shape,
Yielding oil from your seed, like the grape:
Why the name of canola?
Is it just to console a
Consumer who’s frightened of rape?

Made of cotton or hemp? No, it’s not,
But this plastic replacement is hot!
The walls of your tent
Won’t be easily rent
When a canvaslike fabric it’s got.

When a canvasser knocks on your door,
Don’t inform him his party’s a bore,
That his leader lacks pluck
And his policies suck:
Simply bury him under the floor.

I would have said “ignore”, but that would be rude.

“It’s a venue of ample capaciousness,”
Said the vicar, impressed with its spaciousness.
But his flock, though devout,
Were vexatiously stout,
Which no doubt’s what brought out his “good gracious!”-ness.

Some painters of landscapes enlisted
Imaginary places: they twisted
The things they had seen
Into what hadn’t been.
Their capriccios had never existed.

Capybaras will capture your heart:
They’re a capital rodent, and smart.
In captivity, they
Like to caper and play
With your carp—hard to keep ’em apart.

The largest of all living rodents loves nothing better than to jump into a pond or other body of water, especially when there are jaguars around. Sounds pretty smart to me.

Global warming, you say? Goodness gracious!
That really is rather vexatious.
From smoke when we burn
Off the trees? Live and learn...
Who knew forests were so carbonaceous?

Your fervent belief in the Rapture
Has, sadly for everyone, sapped your
Desire to care
About what’s in the air:
All the carbon we now need to capture.

To judge by our carbon emissions,
It seems that our only ambition’s
To burn all the oil
And coal in the soil
And weather the climate conditions.

Carbon fibre is lightweight and strong,
Made from graphite, by drawing out long
And thin filaments, heated
And otherwise treated,
Then woven. It’s tough as King Kong.

Gorilla fur is no substitute.

When he fell on his sword, id est died,
Cleopatra, his lover, then cried,
Hic jacet a Marcus
Antonius carcase,”
Soon prostrate, per asp, at his side.

Hic jacet is “here lies” in Latin; id est is “that is”, i.e. i.e.

A car dealer buys and sells cars.
If you’re cursing the Hummer that mars
The secluded outdoors
And your trip to the stores,
They’re the people to put behind bars.

The cardigan: elderly coat
Made of wool from a sheep or a goat.
Dressing lamb up as mutton’s
Not hard—just sew buttons
On jumpers. (Designers, take note.)

Cariamas from southern Brazil
Carry llamas from mountains to kill—
Or they would if they could.
Their legs aren’t that good,
So a lizard’s their typical thrill.

The cariama looks like a small secretary bird, with long legs and small wings. It’s a relative of the extinct phorusrhacoids or “terror birds”, ten-foot-tall carnivores that stalked the plains of Cenozoic South America kicking llamas downhill, or whatever it is that terrifying birds do.

Me cousin from Currajong said,
“You know me ol’ man, Uncle Fred?
Well, I’m sad to report
He’s your ex-uncle, sport,
’Cos he’s carked it. He’s cactus. He’s dead.”

“Carn Hawthorn! Carn Hodge! Carn the Hawks!”
Is the way that a barracker talks;
When the footy-mad fool’s
Got a craving for Rules,
“Carn the ref!” is the last thing he squawks.

A carnage admirer will thrill
At the number of men he can kill—
And of women, and girls,
And of boys that he hurls
Through a... ’scuse me, I’m feeling quite ill.

A cow nibbles nettles herbivorously.
A bear gobbles cattle carnivorously.
A babe in a cot’ll
Drink milk from a bottle.
A man eats the lottle—omnivorously.

A carry-oot’s barry if you
Want some batter to go wi’ your Bru.
Chip supper or fish,
Any other is pish.
Think I’ll carry some haddie oot noo.

In Scotland, a takeaway is a carry-out. Irn Bru is an orange carbonated beverage that doesn’t taste of orange. Barry means splendid or good, while pish doesn’t.

Find your fortune and fame by cartooning!
Draw a handful of pictures impugning
Some government hack,
And your witty attack
Will make women start actually swooning.

Fame, fortune, and attractiveness not guaranteed.

From the loftiest lodgings of Lhasa
To humble abodes in Mombasa
And streets in Seville,
Every family will
Need a residence, dwelling, or casa.

The casbah’s a quarter for Moors,
A region more rockin’ than yours;
So for cultural clash,
Pack your cases and dash
To Morocco. Here, punk: some brochures.

This system of teaching the law
Uses cases decided before,
So that lawyers-in-training
From prior explaining
Learn how to make justices snore.

The case system.

I’m nuts for a cashew, aren’t you?
It’s a nut that I’d never eschew.
When they’re roasted and salted,
I’ll soon have them bolted,
And cache a few more when I’m through.

Cash register: dingus for dough,
With a drawer where the coins and notes go,
And a whatsit to count
Up the total amount
That your thingummy... customers owe.

“Chateau Cardboard?” he whiningly asks,
As he indicates one or two casks.
“Cab Sav? Or the white?
Try the red, it’s orright.
What the booze lacks, the plastic taste masks.”

Should you fondle in hope of elation,
Be warned that it brings castigation,
Like whacking with birches,
From parents and churches,
Plus chastening sight deprivation.

From The Stout Boy’s Book of Upright Verse by Edward Leer, 1858.

Says the lad in self-pleasuring’s thrall,
“Why, it doesn’t cause blindness at all!”
But a spot of castration
Soon stops masturbation:
No balls means he won’t have a ball.

There was an old man named Fidel
Who increasingly didn’t look well.
Surely Cuban cigars
And those rocket-finned cars
Should be all that you need to feel swell?

When sated, our cat would sprawl flat
In the sun by the wall, and with that
Would announce to us all
That if vermin should call
She would rather not maul ’em, so scat.

My physicist roommate denied
That his pet was a problem: he cried,
“Is his poop really there?”
I replied, “I don’t care—
Just put Schrödinger’s cat box outside!”

My pussycat, Cheshire, as feared,
Didn’t take to his cat box. It’s weird:
Whenever he went
To the bathroom, the scent
Hung around, but the scats disappeared.

A CAT scanner slices and dices
Your innards—these magic devices
Use X-rays to see
Your insides in 3-D—
While a cat scanner’s useful for mices.

My homage to Catalan, bona
fide language of fair Barcelona:
Some speak it in Spain
And in France. (See, this plain
Way of writing’s my Orwell persona.)

Dear Catherine went out for a chat
On the balcony up in her flat,
But was feeling unwell,
Missed the railing, and fell,
Catastrophically ending with splat.

Six consonants all in succession?
Surely not in an English expression!
I tell you, it’s true,
And you know one, you do—
It’s a catchphrase I’d use with discretion.

The ones you won’t know as well are archchronicler, eschscholtzia, latchstring, lengthsman, and postphthisic.

How to handle those cathode-ray tubes:
Put their phosphorus screens into cubes
Of plastic or wood,
Then, aiming real good,
Shoot electrons at vacuous boobs.

A cattleman isn’t a cow/
human half-breed, with horns on his brow;
He’s a person who tends ’em,
And now and then sends ’em
For slaughter, to turn into chow.

The beautiful village of Caux
Is a place where the peacemakers gaux.
Around it is Switzerland:
Mountainous bits o’ land
Covered in powdery snaux.

This tiny Swiss village, reached by a winding road or a steeply climbing cog railway, has been the scene of many conferences for peace and reconciliation since the Second World War. Its magnificent Belle Époque hotel, once the largest in the country, was rescued from decline by the international organisation Moral Rearmament (now Initiatives of Change). Once host to Rockefellers, Maharajahs and F. Scott Fitzgerald, it now welcomes thousands of delegates each year.

The venue, uphill from Montreux,
With the fair Lac Léman far beleux,
Is a former hotel,
The Caux-Palace: a swell
Place for ethical values to greux.

In caves across latter-day France,
The aurochs and mammoth still dance
Across ochre-drawn walls;
In these ancestors’ halls,
Artists hunted the heart of our chance.

You’ll find cannibal doctors in there,
And a suit made of skin, if you dare.
I’d rather not hector,
But caveat lector:
Tom Harris’s readers, beware!

South Americans feast on the guinea-pig
(A small but obese rodent—mini/big):
They reckon the cavy
Goes lovely with gravy.
You think it sounds fattening? Skinny prig!

The monarch, by royal decree,
Fills her minions with maximal glee
With this birthday backhander
Of Empire’s Commander
(That’s British), i.e. C.B.E.

Russian rockets said “CCCP”,
Which was slightly confusing to me.
If the C was both two
Of those S’s and U,
Then should “Kruschev” have two C’s or three?

What’s to fear from a camera or three
And appearing on CCTV?
Having every move tracked
Is a comfort, in fact.
Why, the state’s like a brother to me.

Now it’s time to create mp3s,
I discover that all my CDs,
Although disks, aren’t compact
When they’re vertically stacked
In their hundreds. Please, nobody sneeze.

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