In private email,
Discerned the reason that my words scan
To dactyls although my mother tongue
Is surely built on the iamb plan.
It's just that when still a juvenile,
Exposed to poems of a certain style,
I grew quite fond of the Limerick
Which some call fun and others vile.
The point in which I find irony
Is that the ones that are dear to me
Do set the pattern to start if off
But are not the Limericks they seem to be.
There once was a man from Japan
Whose Limericks never would scan
When people asked why
He replied with a sigh
"It's because I always try to cram as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can."
There was a fellow from China
Whose Limericks scan much finah
His Limericks tend
To come to an end
Another young gent hailed from Rheemes
With tidier scansion it seems
She had all the rhymes
But they're only four lines
There once was a lady from Crewe
Whose Limericks stopped at line two
There once was a man from Verdun
(There's alleged to be a fine Limerick about Nero, but I fear I've never heard it.)
There once was a man from St. Bees
Who was stung on the arm by a hornet
When asked, "Does it hurt?"
He replied, "No, it doesn't;
I'm just so glad it wasn't a wasp."