Here’s a great holiday-themed 3-stanza limerick I got from my Uncle Roy and Aunt Shirley, who live in Naples, Florida. They got hit so hard by Hurricane Wilma that at Thanksgiving, they were still working full-time to find their backyard. Sadly, the boat mentioned in the poem, a small aluminum skiff, didn’t survive.
Our turkey’s baked, our goose is cooked
The terminal is crowded, passage booked
Our Christmas is crisis or so it would seem
We’ve done all our shopping, run out of steam
We’re ready for nothing nothing overlooked
We didn’t put up a tree this year
Wilma took them all down, we fear.
Our toys were under the tree
Boat, pump, fence, at least three
An axe, a saw, took a month to clear
The mess from the yard and out to the street
For pickup, piled wide and up eight feet
Done with that, now sweeping and raking,
Cleaning, cooking, shopping and baking
We’ll send cards next year, this year we’re beat
Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Hoppy Gnu Year
A very frightening landing inspired this rhyme a couple of weeks ago:
With Orlando’s airport in sight
The passengers all had a fright
The plane lurched and yawed
A man screamed, “Oh Gawd!
“Just please let me survive this flight!”
A few days later, I received this via e-mail from my sister Julie, who wrote of her experience flying home after Thanksgiving:
Atlanta can be such a bore.
When you sit there 5 hours – no, more!
Could have flown to Bombay,
In the time of travel Monday.
From Sun City to Eugene, in hours: Twenty-four.
Is it any wonder we hate to fly???
Quoth the Raven, “enough already”
We had hoped to be, upon the sea,
Not on the rocks but not on blocks.
But there we are and much too far,
From a flush toilet, with our eyes set
on a shower, our eyes red, our bodies sour
In and out, up and down, the further we must go,
The boat won’t sink and we won’t drown, we’re still on blocks, although
We be at sea (or up the creek). Avast, thar she blows, no pirates, no leak,
No transmission, no go, we’re up on blocks, you know.
We’ll sail round the world, but it will take longer.
While we’re on the blocks, and the odor stronger.
But at least, I think, though we may stink, we won’t sink
We’er still on blocks, with rocks in our head, and we’re fed
Up with the sailing, and failing to go but not on rocks still on blocks
And quoth the rabbit, “cut the crap!”
I have a cool sister named Margaret
Who never bought clothes at a Target
To the Thrift store she’d go,
In the rain, sleet or snow.
Now she’s devoid of a house or a closet!