He once had a goose that laid some eggs, of gold each were the same — until his true love hoped to see from where the gold all came. But geese are good with warning calls and since he gave her seven they raised th’alarm when their time came to be dispatch’d to heaven.
‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the world Science warned of the perils which soon would unfurl Like a veil across nations, some variant virus Respecting no frontiers, a fate undesirous.
But bad politicians (who cared not one jot For the weak, old or ignorant) hastened their plot To party all night while denying the fact; Just flaunting their privilege, which others lacked.
But turkeys will finally come home to their roost, With leaks to the press and the media now loosed. It all adds to the sins seeking bottoms to bite: “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
A reflection on contemporary politics, after a Conservative PM, his Cabinet and his coterie were revealed in December 2021 to have partied through 2020 while the country went through various lockdowns and periods of self-isolation.
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore and his poem ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’ (1822)
The virus from outside, just like a trojan horse,
attacks the victim’s inside, violates our very source,
though they try their very damnedest to repel it,
our bodies have their work cut out just trying to expel it.
The chronicles of nausea, vomit, diarrhea,
demonstrate a failure to keep clear
of the dread coronavirus,
an illness sent to try us.
Symptoms gastrointestinal —
in the analysis somewhat final —
is reported by 1 in 10 or 20
women and men: queasiness aplenty.
Today’s coronaverse was brought to you by the letter N.
You know those two hobbits called Baggins? Their trips only came after naggings from Gandalf the wizard. They wandered through blizzard and mines, then they drank loads of flagons. Now, one found a ring of great power, and one found his way to a tower to bring down a Dark Lord, or perish in Mordor; a deed which caused Sauron to glower.
There’s sadness, adventure and mirth in the lands all around Middle Earth. Right in the middle’s what’s won with some riddles: a magical ring of great worth.
Now a saga is something quite serious, potentous, designed to quite weary us. A limerick’s light, reputedly trite, unsuited to epics imperious. So a story of hobbits, and wizards, and elves, and matters a saga digs down to and delves is no topic for limerick, it’s pointless to mimic. If you want such a tale you must write it yourselves!
It’s New Year’s Eve. So long, and thanks
for all the luscious puns and games,
for health reports, and news of pranks
you’ve played, and all the names
you’ve called your other half,
old whatsit… It’s been quite a laugh.
And so, as we see out this year,
it’s cheers to you! And mine’s a beer.
Waking up this morning with an earworm in my head, Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill,
Waking from a dream wondering why on earth I’d said “Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill.”
I was sitting on a train — Puffing Billy was its name —
When rising from my seat as I leapt up to my feet
Out the window then I flew as an arrow straight and true
All the while sucking colour from a puffin’s bill.