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The name of the game: a community limerick challenge.
Each person submits one line to a developing limerick, and in doing so, tries to stump the author of the next line by the increasing difficulty in creating a meaningful rhyme that sticks to the topic as it's generated.
The rules: No using
words that are noted for having no rhymes whatsoever, like 'orange.' The limerick must make some sort of sense when read through, surreal though it may be.
A bungling young baker 'named 'Steele...
A similar game I played once
http://www.banksean...velytale/image.html
It started out as an email game: she wrote the first verse, a limmerick where each line began with the letter A. The next turn was mine, and I wrote a limmerick where each line began with B. We alternated like this all the way to Z in a thread of email echanges over the course of a month. Later she suprised me with a bound and illustrated version of it. [banksean, Oct 04 2004, last modified Oct 21 2004]
[link]
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had many an idea surreal.. |
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so he went to the store... |
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that was wrapped in a banana peel.... |
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A challenging rhymer called Ray... |
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bought all sorts of stuff at Ebay |
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twelve gross of down pillows, |
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after dozin' under a duvet. |
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A layabout lazer named 'wax, |
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Received a most interesting fax, |
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after reporting in sick to woik |
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<Autocorrection>Excuse me, Sir, Mr. John 3:16, Sir, "smirk" does not rhyme with "woik" - The word which you rhymed to is a forbidden word, Mr. Sinner. Please make a mental note of it and rhyme with "woik", the less disgusting, more palata/digesti/ble term. <Factoid to be ignored in this limerick>I haven't called in sick to woik in oh, about 10 years or more.</Factoid to be ignored in this limerick></Autocorrection> |
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[following from po]...woik,
he spent the whole day playing quoits, |
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then made tracks to his bed to relax. |
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somethin' 'bout reindeer and St. Nick, |
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but their plans went awry |
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By the foolish limerick spy. |
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A young Farmer from Sweden |
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Couldn't figure which field to put the seed in, |
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"Here I sit on the fence," |
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Geeze...is everyone asleep? |
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A young Farmer who hails from Sweden,
Couldn't figure which field to put the seed in,
"Here I site on the fence",
"With my bags full of quince",
"Trying to create my own little Garden of Eden" |
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somebody start a new one....I'm just feeling impatient today.....sorry.... |
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From chain saw and axe, forrest ran, |
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The return of a 'baker named lewisgirl,
Threw the bakers' community into a whirl,
We all thought she had gone,
And vowed not to return,
What are you trying to do to us, girl? |
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From chainsaw and axe, forrest ran,
Pursued by a silver woodsman tin can,
a strawman and lion that wailed,
and the young Dorothy Gale,
He grabbed Toto and headed back to Kan |
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We've all missed the presence of Susen
Who spent 6 months in Belize, just cruisin'
Sifting sand on a beach
With a cocktail in reach
But now she's back of her free will and choosin' |
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Bored and tired of boozin'
Like Turtles of Galapagos
we return
To lie on our bellies on the beach at risk for sunburn
And on the halfbakery hunt for old ideas to churn
Until we are forced by fish to learn
Maybe it should use GPS, and not be piezoelectric
Despite the well-intentioned woik ethic
With the possible exception of a remote control
And the telephone with which I put you on hold
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[Note: yes, that is well more than one line.] |
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an odd concept, a polartomato |
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and a halfbaking tubbie po |
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looks like the tele is frozen |
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perhaps a depletion of ozone |
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or a french-fried Irish potato. |
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I guess we will never know |
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(Is that a six line limerick?, anyway:)
There was a young man named Eanis... |
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who swore at the judge from the dock |
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When told to put away his penis,
He relied,"Your worship, it's really a cock." |
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Unabubba blew bubbles down under, |
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Until it caused him to chunder; |
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So each bubble was filled, |
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With shrimp Bar-B'd not grilled, |
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And his dinner was drifting asunder. |
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.....an unassuming halfbaker called alx |
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said "pronouncing my name is most complex", |
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You can read it in Braille. |
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a wonderful friend called blissmiss |
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when greeted by a spider does dismiss, |
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sends her down the corridor fleeing |
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'till persuaded by Spiderman's kiss. |
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Dropped in a bucket
Somewhere in Nantuckett... |
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A ladybug
And a sea slug... |
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Where have all the 'bakers gone? |
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<xml>long time parsing...</xml> |
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Where have all the 'bakers gone? |
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Are they with beauxeault? |
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<fantasy world> Young girls have picked them everyone </fantasy world> |
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When will they ever learn? |
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When will they ever learn?
</Peter, Paul and Mary> |
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A Doctor named Bob was invited to Lords' |
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In short breeches and wigs they stood there in hordes, |
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it wigged them out of their gourds. |
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In exchange for a glimpse of her gourds. |
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The yama I know, ain't the god, |
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and he's certainly not Ken Dodd |
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but he's good on a fiddle, |
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And a very clever, big sod. |
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Farmer, there's one thing I'd like to know, |
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Is that posing pouch purely for show? |
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Or a harmless great clod, |
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Or 6 foot of beefcake, to go. |
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(just couldn't resist, could you UB? ;-) |
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While eating a custard pie one day, |
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I chanced on a 'baker named Ray, |
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(Just trying to guess what might have been in your evil, little mind, Susen<g>) |
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(I was gonna ask what kind of Farmer he was ;-) |
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He said, "I'd rather die." |
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(Sure you were. And the green cheese would be...?) |
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Thinking how much more he would weigh. |
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An unlazy Susen on the beach, |
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There once was a man named Percy |
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(amazing, deletion your anno above this....you, sir, are out of order, your honour) |
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Seemed unaware of the lessons she could teach, |
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Lizards, newts, bats and frogs, |
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And a litre of powerful bleach |
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There's an angel here without wings, |
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who says many wonderful things |
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prog-rocking throughout Cornwall, |
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And still finds time for you dingalings. |
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who *claimed* he was only thirteen, by golly; |
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But the power of his rhetoric, |
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and understanding of metric, |
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Left even oldies feeling quite jolly. |
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And our jutta the capo dei capi, |
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Gives the boot to trolls that are crappy |
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Because they can't learn to follow the herd.. |
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And leaves them soiling their nappy. |
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PS. [bliss] - I think you'll find that's "ne'er". |
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A pedantic soul named [PeterSilly], |
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With a mug just like [PeterSealy], |
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A plentitude of toilet ideas to berate |
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And says his real name's Silly, really. |
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That did the trck dbl quck. |
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There once were some Ponytail Fasteners...... |
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hair furniture we had in Xcess |
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Our peace she did transgress, |
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This limerick's quite a mess |
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No different from anything else on this site, but I digress... |
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I once saw an idea called Pole Pants |
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That multiplied like invading fire ants |
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then I'll hem my divan's new valance. |
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Some people like cats and some hate 'em, |
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That 8th uses glue to restrain 'em, |
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Then 7/8 lights the fuse, |
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And kitty sings the blues, |
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They fell on his plate and he ate 'em. |
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There was a young goddess called Mictlantecihuatl, |
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who had a strange thing for young cattle, |
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A handsome philosopher called Aristotle |
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Blew a tire when his car hit a pothole |
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So with the aid of some custard, |
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He remained totally unflustered |
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And drove on philosophically in full throttle. |
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Who logged in when he got bored |
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Who ever thought he'd be Gored? |
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from arthritis his joints were rustin' |
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Was all that didn't start bustin'. |
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The return of a 'baker named waugs, |
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Means we can stop checking morgues |
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While the rest of us have gone to the dogs. |
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You say "dawgs" and I say "daugs". You say "hawgs" and I say "haugs". |
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Farmer = Attila, of the soil. |
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Bubba = the grey matter Antipodean. |
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who gets a cup o' tea in, [is anyone still playing?] |
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& have a sense of foreboding |
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it's great to see susen is back |
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She is back on the beaten track |
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just as sweet and game for a laugh |
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It seems the bakery has a ghost, |
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who leaves a trace in many a post: |
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Of information the rest of us lack |
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Can it be a spooky hack attack? |
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Halfbakery folk are a diverse lot,
Aussie, Brit, Canadian, Scot,
From Belizian beaches,
To Connecticut reaches,
Our doughy, half done, melting pot.
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There once was a man named Percy,
Who really liked to eat...sherty,
He would peel off the skin,
Then sing "Rin-Tin-Tin",
And that is the story of Percy. |
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Full Moon, he walked the ramparts. |
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His belly full with lamb hearts, |
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And threw it, at the village's tarts. |
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some idiot troll called our phoenix, a muppet |
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Claimed the poster-child for dysgenics, a puppet |
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They could have picked me, |
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but they knew better, you see |
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for they'd've had a reply they'd never forget |
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Replete with 3 word contractions, yet.
And some dude with a pair of giant pistols, |
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Into the fray, tired and a-lagged by jet,
Weighs the 'baker we all know as Bristolz. |
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You got that one right O Aussie mister, |
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How have you been, our bristolzish friend?
Did you see that great land from end to end? |
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End-to-end, I fear I did not
But of the south, I saw a lot. |
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Then tell us, if you can... of Matabeleland. |
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I wish she would come out to play. |
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