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.
(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.”