Finirick (50/90 Limerick Thread)

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We're ready, we're energised, but -
The starter gates all remain shut!
So how bout a poem
To doubtlessly show 'em
Our muses ain't stuck in a rut?

I'm counting time
To use a rhyme
Get back on the horse
Of course
50 song mountains to climb.

The thing about writing that's nifty
Is that you don't have to be thrifty
With words and ideas
Put rest to your fears -
Keep writing, you still can hit fifty!

When apathy makes me feel sad,
My behaviour turns termin'lly bad,
I see this thread languish!
To stop mental anguish
I've bumped it up! (I must be mad.)

An alter ego I'd grown
Split off more of its own,
And they've now run riot
And to my disquiet,
Far better than me, they're known.

To get music tracks into Apple,
Is like getting hitched in a chapel.
You vow and declare
And then find you're nowhere,
As for income you desperately grapple.

We're off with more whimper than thunder
And I cannot help but to wonder:
Just hang on a minute,
We're seven posts in it
And all of them come from Down Under?

Our cousins the limerick dumped
Like it? No, instead, they lumped.
Is this the reason?
In this summer season
Their humour's been thoroughly trumped?

I'll state this truth just this one time
My politics, really, they're mine.
To the right I might swing
But it's still a good thing
That I don't let it spoil a sweet rhyme.

Political difference - that qualia
Which ends debate so oft in failure
My beef with you isn't
But the fact you're a guy from Australia

What prompts us to be so rude
When more fun could come, were we lewd?
We're cousins, you see,
And that galls thee and me,
As we're mired in a family feud.

My great great great grandfather's brother
To live in the U.S. he'd rather
So I've relatives about
But one, he stands out:
For Europe, for a while, he played Mother.


I have an impossible brother
Who had the same father and mother
Yet he thinks it's okay to shoot
People that have liberty in pursuit
Such horrible things he sometimes mutters


Your head-of-state choices look bleak
(I say this with tongue half in cheek)
But don't feel bad, 'cause
Unlike those down in Oz
You can keep one for more than a week

Some writers' politics suit
Persisting with mouldy fruit.
But when you've picked badly
The moral is, sadly:
Sometimes it's better to boot.

Our Prime Ministerial Roundabout
Is down-under madness, without a doubt.
But it prompts me to write
To the papers each night,
And they print more of mine than they throw out!



All the songs I compared and contrasted
Like a nice-yet-magnificent bastard
Now we've reached the page third
My soul's no longer stirred
Bloody hell. It was fun while it lasted.

It's rather like 'Game of Thrones' bastardry
To encourage them, then to be dastardly.
The poor writers dance
'Twixt crossbow and lance
And there's guts left all over the parquetry.

My FiNirick skills I'm burnishing
Since I haven't had time to do skirmishing
For the gas fire it comes
And my wife beats the drums
And demands that I move all the furnishing

With your wife on the drums that’s a start
(It’s about time she chose to take part!)
There’s a skirmish tomorrow
Just an hour to borrow
You two could engage, heart-to-heart!

The first superskirmish completed,
My musical well's quite depleted
So time for a break
And maybe some cake
And then write some more, undefeated

From the heights of creation he fell
Into a bottomless well
But the echoes resounded--
That's how he rebounded,
With a new reverb plug-in to sell.

Take this piece of daft oratory
And drink it in, in all its glory
It's not just a crime
Of a worthless old rhyme
It's also a thirty word story!

Thirty word stories go nowhere--
The lack of words leaves the plot threadbare.
But I guess there's some realism
In existen-sheeeel-ism...
And therein, my very own nightmare!

Existentialism's a humanism, I've heard
Condemned to be free - like a bird
OMG I never realized
How Skynyrd had philosophized!
And here I thought that song was a turd!

That song, which you failed to love,
Was dropped on you from high above.
Though it came from a bird
Still it stays but a turd
From a Skynyrd imitating a dove.

They say “All’s fair in love” (‘til they marry us)
Then rebellion is purely vicarious:
If you have extra e’s
You should do as you please
Your phonetical spelling’s hilarious!

Additional e's? Man, I really don't want any!
A pangrammatic lipogram -- any is too many!
Banish one sign or mark
Particularly graphic symbol #5 for a lark
(Although this FiNiRick fails the trial -- I'm not canny!)

Where WOULD we all be without "eeee"s?
Their only desire is to please.
It's good they're abundant
And never redundant,
Else WE'D all run right out of "MEEEEE"s!

Napoleon's shadow is long...
If you think it's diminished, you're wrong!
For th' ISRC's
That they've given to me,
Must now Marshall Ney in each song

Long shadows come out after dark
As I go for a walk in the park
A companion who dances
(The streetlight entrances)
Her foot never misses the mark!

There once was a fellow named Tom
Who'd spent the entire day playing - what a bomb!
But the yard still needs mowing
& in the sink something's growing
Tomorrow he'll handle it with aplomb!

For proper domestic felicity
It's true from most distant antiquity:
Your dishes you'll do
Or you'll be left to rue
Life in a sink of iniquity.

The problem with lawns, they grow grass
And springtime, they'll grow it real fast
Is mowing more painful
Than a partner disdainful?
Dunno. They're both pains in the arse.

How sadly the FiNiricks settle
Like gum on the base of a kettle.
But here is the crux--
A little acid reflux
Would burn all the way through the metal

I hear 'kettles' and think 'glass and plastic'
Although, mentally, that's inelastic.
And such hocus and pocus
Distracts from your focus -
Thread's on top, thanks to remedies drastic!

To 'recent threads' tip we now anchor
With merely a morsel of rancour
My vocab inventive
No great disincentive -
I've license to talk like a wanker!

In drinking, I pass as a spanker,
But from grogging, I'm left with this canker:
As an anal rententive,
To weight inattentive,
I've license to walk like a tanker!


To keep all your verses matching
And avoid any near-rhyme patching,
Some simple tricks
Come inside limericks
For the meter and rhythm is catching!

I hang out this juicy bait
And settle down, only to wait
There's nothing online
Not a single new rhyme...
The boredom's a worse-than-death fate.

Of bon mots I'm not a good dropper
Nor can I tell a good whopper
But the stanzas here show
I am (as I know)
A great conversation stopper

Has anyone noticed, I wonder?
This thread’s thick with folk from down under
I guess no one’s a patch on
Both Wordsmith or Fatchen
But I’ll still try to steal their thunder

Some think me a songwriting swami,
But I've written just one - how barmy!
What might keep me going's
The prospect of knowing
One might be 'tuned up' by The Army!

Your one is one more than I've done
InFINitely more, in sum
If you keep up this pace
I'll sadly lose face
In the knowledge you'll win the run.

The weekend's arrived -- how wonderful!
Time to make music thunderful!
Or quiet and sweet
whatever is meet
Aw crap, grass is long, from music I am sundered full.

A mower that wanted to mow
Chased a muso who kept saying "no!!!"
But the man couldn;t pass
He was trapped by the grass!
And couldn't perform! What a blow...

The laugh's on the grass, I neglected
To mow it - it's there disrespected.
The neighbors may gripe;
A neat lawn's a hype!
With the need to make noise I'm infected!