I try: not get too anapestic
In every line,
Yet I find that some people go ballistic
At deviations that are so tin-
y. More important: beats you’re thumping:
3-3-2-2-3—how you keep time.
I love the, love the, love the, five-line limerick.

I got to count up my tally
Of beats, and 13 there are—
Not, not fifteen—that would be too many;
With even 14 I would have gone too far.
I love the—covet!—love the, five-line limerick.

I fear that “humping” I’ve chosen—
With this subject I’m never bored—
Lots of goings and coming. . .in and outs,
Things bluenoses have always abhorred.
And I love portal peekin’. . .chicks in throes
And gonads the size of a gourd.
I love the—love it!—love the, five-line limerick.

In which sheep are poled as Mr. TT.
Of ewe-femistic tune-spoof fame
Writes. I can’t understand how his mind works.
His efforts put all of mind to shame.
His brain is quite far from reptilian;
He’s tops in the parody game.
But does he, does he, does he write limericks?

Yes, my themes: nudes, re: pubic, and –ation:
That’s a suffix to which I clew. . .
“masturb-,” “fornic-,” “invagin-”; when emboldened—
Like TT, I’ll tackle a ewe.
It’s just a pastime and not a career;
There’s no market for that which I do—
That’s—love it, love it, love it!—write limericks.

My tropes are not metaphoric, arty;
If they’d a smell, it would be strong.
If they wafted to your nose, they’d conquer
All the receptors with the pong.
I’m no gentleman—rather, a rank bore
In my limericks and in my songs,
But. . .love to, love to, love to write lickerish.

“The things that you’ve done are repulsive. . .
Inconceivable how you could gin
Up these nasty things!” Such is the greeting
I get each day from my kin.
Ah but then I learned of a site where
You can send your creations in.
Won’t snub me, snub me, snub me, my limericks.