wallytown/limericks

Near the village of West Aspinwall
Lives the layabout laggard Lord Hall.
He idles about
'Til the crocuses sprout,
Then relaxes whilst waiting for Fall.

On the cold peak of Pigne d'Arreau
Sits a fellow named Paul Thibodeaux.
Perhaps you might think
He needs warming or drink.
Worry not—for he froze long ago.

A songsterish gardener named Zuhning
Was less gifted at pruning than crooning.
He sang as he hacked,
And when he came back,
He looked like a Willem de Kooning.

In the canon of conscienceless curs
Shines a blighter named Fenimore Furz.
He switched his friends' sweets
For dead parakeets,
And their pillows for clusters of burrs.

For the crème de la crème of dumb fucks,
Look no further than Pontifex Lux.
He launched an attack
Against General von Hacke
With naught but a phalanx of ducks.

While drinking Absinthe in La Paz,
I befriended a crazed tweaker spaz.
We blundered 'round bashing
and smashing and crashing—
It sounded just like modern jazz.

The last time I drank Armagnac,
I awakened, bemused, on my back.
Atop me three whores
All waved semaphores
To signal my sausage was slack.

How many times must I replace
This itinerant nose on my face?
Each time I run out
Of whiskey and stout,
Straightaway it floats off into space.

A mannerless Cockfosters barber
Tried a secretive grope in the arbor.
She walloped his dick
With a crabapple stick,
And his cogs flew off into the harbor.