A Nonsense Verse 

(Unfortunately, Not Written By Edward Lear)

When men were men, and women were men,

And the rest of us were trying to rest,

They picked a number from one to ten

But which they picked is anyone’s guess.

For on a spinning top there stands

A man whose face could use a rinse,

And coiling slyly in his hands

Are miles and miles of fingerprints.

Yet there is hope for those who sneeze

And he who drives the Shriner’s car:

If half the locks fit half the keys

Then maybe the jam will fit the jar.

The Clod

(As Written By William Blake On A Day When He Was Not On Such Happy Terms With The Almighty)

Little clod, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

I daresay thou dost not, thou dolt,

For thou wert made by the greatest Clod of all,

Who cleaves the sky above the clouds

And maketh the little rainy drops to fall

And kills with one bright lightning bolt

And shoves us all into our shrouds.

A Literary Limerick

A gentleman named T.S. Eliot

Is Heaven’s wittiest man of belles lettres.

“I think I’m immortal,”

He says with a chortle,

“But God knows it’s too early to tell yet.”