There was an old man who insisted
on writing his limericks twisted.
You'd think he was crazy
they way he resisted
convention. Perhaps he was lazy?
But give him his due. He intended
to edit them if they offended
the form vigilantes
whose venom extended
to vitriol richer than Dante's.
And though he was quirky and curious
he never resorted to spurious
asides from Nantucket.
In fact, he got furious
with culture dredged up in a bucket.
He sat, when the weather permitted,
(he knew it was wrong to say 'sitted')
perusing the ocean
while overhead flitted
(or flat?) an ecstatic commotion
of seagulls, canaries and eagles,
gorillas, hyenas and beagles
in mutual consumption
(see how he inveigles
a rhyme out of nowhere - pure gumption)
He pondered, while dining on bindhi (a
green vegetable common in India)
"Were I elocuted
I'd say it's a windiah
day than the forecasters mooted,
"but being, in my everyday parlance,
like many McPhails and Macfarlanes
un peu au nature
I'll adhere to my 'R'. Lance
the boil of pretension, McClure!"