Limerick challenge entries - November 2006

There was an old man who drank beer
who fancied himself as King Lear.
One night at the Bard
he was feeling quite hard,
and was caught out shaking his spear.
.....................................................................Sue.

There was an old man who drank beer
and it made him feel awfully queer.
He minced to the loo
with his hair dyed blue,
and everyone ran out in fear.
................................................................Bill Bitter

There was an old man who drank beer
offered water he'd tell you "No fear!"
A good Pedigree
keeps my bowels quite free,
several has me just short of Diarrhoea.
.....................................................................Gadget

There was an old man whio drank beer
till he fell off tyyhe end of a pier.
He yelled " Get me out!"
but was left up the spout
as a shark ate him up with a sneer.
..................................................................Marilyn

There was an old man who drank beer
who all of a sudden felt fear.
He popped into the Whistle,
but swallowed some gristle
and woke up next morning all queer!
..................................................................The 3 Stooges

There was an old man who drank beer
At girls in the pub he would leer.
"Have a drink with me,
a coffee or tea.
You won't regret it my dear!"
..............................................................Tom

There was an old man who drank beer
which made him feel terribly queer.
He fell on his face,
and rolled in disgrace
just as soon as his wife did appear.
...............................................................Maureen

"The only Poet in the Village"

By Butch Tim - "The Rock"

Now in this town of Burton, located on the river Trent,
a cultural tradition was, where once or twice perhaps a year
poetic evenings would take place. Some people to an old pub went
to share their love of poetry, and drink some dodgy-tasting beer.
These lovers of fine poetry, one and all they came
invited by a man from Hilton, Adrian by name.

Unfortunately for these folk, their future was uncertain;
the Thomas Sykes, their meeting place, was doomed to be demolished.
Progress and development confronting art in Burton.
Disaster stared them in the face," poetry night" could be abolished!
They argued with the council, they even wrote to Tony Blair,
but all they did to no avail; life was cruel and unfair.

But Adrian, the hero, iconic champion of his art
refused to be discouraged, refused to countenance defeat.
He felt a sense of destiny stirring up within his heart.
Poetry nights would rise again: how dare they make them obsolete!
Unaccustomed as he was to either pubs or beer,
He'd search to find a place to meet in southern Staffordshire!

He tried to get some lottery funds, but sad to say they turned him down.
Still, undeterred, one evening, he set out on his pilgrimage.
He went in pubs and inns and bars, sampling beers throughout the town.
His T-shirt said across the front - "the only poet in the village".
But nowhere was appropriate for Wordsworth to be read;
The pubs all seemed to cater now for tattooed chavs instead

Alas, throughout that fateful night, in all the pubs in which he went,
No matter where he asked, there were, no answers to his question.
Devoted to his noble quest, he gave it one hundred percent
(perhaps though overdoing it, a touch, on ale ingestion).
He tried to share his poets heart, but none were interested
They threw him out or called the police; he nearly got arrested.

Eventually he found himself, emotional and feeling tired,
(perhaps more accurate to say, as tired and emotional as a newt);
exhausted and despondent at not finding all that he desired
he just fell down in Wetmore Road, his desperation absolute.
Yet from the gutter saw a sign! "Poetry is welcomed here:
And while you're reading poetry, why not try our famous beer!"

So here we are, the Wetmore Whistle, cultural centre of the town.
His noble work was not in vain. A feast of poems on the menu,
some poetry-enhancing ale that everyone is drinking down;
we've had a cracking time tonight in this the new artistic venue!
So Adrian, thank you, once again, exceeding expectation,
For organising this event of literary delectation!

Wetmore Whistle - Burton

There was a young lass from "the Whistle"
Whose knickers got all in a twizzle.
When doing a dance,
with a high-kicking prance,
you could see all the fluff on 'er thistle.

There was a young lass from "the Whistle"
made soup from lumps of old gristle.
When I dared to complain,
she snarled with disdain,
Raised finger and told me to twizzle!