Limerick Poetry Challenge
Write a limerick (learn how to write one here) about a famous poet or about writing poetry and post it in the comments section below. This challenge is brought to you by poet Roy E. Peterson, who wrote the three below sample limericks.
Wordsworth Love Daffodils
William Wordsworth well loved daffodils,
And once saw a bunch dancing up hills.
_Perhaps he was glad,
_Or else he was mad.
I wonder what kind were his pills.
Making Ink
When the poet’s pen lost all its ink,
He went to make more in his sink.
_He got some charcoal
_He smashed in the bowl
With vinegar, quick as a wink.
Poet Agents
The poet deemed his poems were best,
And decided to give them a test.
_He hired an agent
_And made his prepayment.
But they languished along with the rest.
A Limerick about Limericks
A Limerick’s five lines of fun,
and often it’s written to stun.
But if it’s not clever,
then strew your endeavour
with words such as ‘titty’ and ‘bum’.
Ha, Ha! Good contribution.
(Hot off the press)
If Shakespeare Hadst Considered the Limerick, Limerick
When iambs and couplets abounded,
a limerick’s use was unfounded.
Yet this poet sees,
the rhyme schemes two Bs
to Shakespeare’s ear would have resounded.
Shakespeare would have loved this one! A fun read.
“Frost-y Mugs”
Robert Frost was a metricist’s dream,
Unmatched in his rhythm and scheme.
Whether fired or iced, his cider was nice.
He and Elinor made quite a team!
Good one, Thomas! Loved the “fired or ice.”
Thanks, friend! I also thought of “apple picking” with the cider reference. Lol!
Alas!
There once was a witch on a broom.
Who took off in search of a groom.
She got lost in a blizzard.
And was caught by a wizard,
Who turned her into a mushroom!
–©️ Rupali Mistry, India
Rupali, that is very funny! A witch turned into a mushroom!
Thank you so much.
I enjoyed that!
Thank you so much.
Okay, so I decided to try my hand at a couple of limericks, below. Fun stuff, thanks.
He Told All
Have you read Dante’s poem about Hell?
He told all, and he told it so well,
You might think he led tours
To the place one abjures,
Did he end there himself? I can’t tell.
A Cold Head
My dear Washington Irving, so bold,
Of a headless horseman he told,
In the war, had he fought,
And had known what he taught.
His own head would be awfully cold!
Two excellent ones, Roger! Now I too wonder where Dante wound up.
Thank you, Roy.
A dynamo named Ezra Pound
Thought metrical verse was unsound.
With modernist fury
He fought it, quite sure he
Would smash it right into the ground.
Joseph, I was aware and now others of Ezra Pounds being unsound.
I love fury/sure he.
Bob Browning hooked up with Liz Barrett
And both of them lived in a garret.
They had just one kid
But besides that, they did
Keep an mangy and flea-bitten parrot.
Joseph, what a surprise. I wonder if the parrot recited their lines when Bob was drunk on his wines!
A poetic rat named Old Wheezy,
Wrote sonnets both formal and breezy
The critics abhorred them
But mice all adored them
Because they all sounded so cheesy.
When Shakespeare wrote, “Lend me your ears,”
The Romans responded with cheers.
But the interest charged
On the loans grew enlarged
To the point where he fell in arrears.
Though as poet, Burns sang like a bird,
“Tam o’ Shanter” near failed, so I’ve heard.
When his publisher blanched
When the Scottish bard chanced
To demand he be paid by the word.
James, I am amazed at the concepts of all three poems! They are great from the wheezy and cheesy,, to the ears in arrears, and on to being paid by the word that Tam must have thought was absurd!
Ivan Pavlov was high on his grog
And he couldn’t come out of his fog.
As he suffered this hell
He awoke to the bell
And he yelled, “I must go feed the dog!”
What a great thought about the Pavlovian principle of how dogs and other animals are trained to respond!
A sickly, reflecting old Nietzsche
Had called in his tech-savvy Preacher.
Freddy said, “God is dead.”
Then the Preacher, he said,
“You know, Death’s not a bug, it’s a feature!”
Mike, that is really funny with a great ending!
Roy, maybe it should be, “Death IS a bug, not a feature!” !
E.A. Poe was obsessed with the tomb —
He worried about its dark gloom.
He pondered quite often
About a tight coffin
And how he’d be cramped in its room.
What a great limerick about Edgar and so consonant with his dark writings!
After Prufrock
No argument, I will grow old,
Perhaps even wear trousers rolled
But hair parted behind?
I think you will find
I’d rather eat a peach, truth be told.
Ah, great reference to Prufrock and funny encapsulation.
These are all brilliant… here’s one from me:
I don’t care if you ‘just want to say’
That you’ve eaten those plums up today
They may have been sweet
But they were my treat
And is that a poem? Oh nay!
Ah, Rohini, you have my empathy and sympathy! Thank you for tasteful limerick.
Thank you, Roy!
I just can’t help it! They are simply too easy to write! Here’s one on Percy:
Shelley was young and inspired —
He wrote florid verse, heaven-fired
With wild heartfelt sighs
And birds in the skies,
But his readers at length became tired.
Joseph, you certainly are in the groove! Wonderful stuff!
MUSES GOT INTO A FIGHT
By Roy E. Peterson
It was not long after midnight
Two muses got into a fight.
The poet said, quoth,
“I still love you both
But give me a rest for tonight.”
ON EDGAR ALLAN POE
By Roy E. Peterson
Ed Poe was a poet unshaven.
His poetry often was craven.
Like his poetry;
His death, mystery.
“Nevermore,” quoted the Raven.
TENNYSON AND “THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
By Roy E. Peterson
In “The Charge of the Light Brigade,”
600 men charged unafraid.
Those they left behind
Said they did not mind.
There was no victory parade.
THE MOBY DICK LIMERICK
By Roy E. Peterson
They said that the whale was a Dick.
He had green moss that hung on his prick.
The Captain Ahab
Had a gift of gab.
Herm’s poetry also was slick.
Poet Note
Herman Melville, the author of “Moby Dick,” was also famous for his poetry and in the 1800’s was considered one of the best American poets along with Williams Wordsworth and Emily Dickinson.
Very funny, Roy, especially the one about Moby’s Dick. I wonder where old Ahab was stuck, hung on his own petard, so to speak. Melville didn’t tell, but in any case, the whale got the last laugh.
Thank you, Roger. I usually do not write about such vulgarity but this thought was too good to pass up.
ChatGPT Limerick
When homework’s assigned to me,
I just go to ChatGPT.
My GPA score,
is sitting at 4,
but my brain’s now the size of a pea.
(The presenter at the AI workshop I was on last week, wasn’t impressed by the above)
Paul, I am impressed, because that is my greatest fear about the intellectual establishment. I am thankful I stopped teaching for the University of Phoenix a few years ago, because I can foresee exactly what you foresaw! Are grades relevant anymore?
SHAKESPEARE’S DARK LADY
By Roy E. Peterson
Shakespeare wrote of his dark lady.
A woman who must have been shady.
As a paramour,
She had lovers galore.
Perhaps she was fashioned in Hades.
It seems she had wires for hair.
Her complexion was dark and not fair.
With no rose on her cheeks,
He said her breath reeks.
No wonder he found his love rare.
The Luckiest Man in Kentucky
There once was a man from Kentucky,
who counted himself as unlucky:
his girlfriend, a cheater,
his truck was a beater—
his life had become downright sucky.
He drove himself down to the Buckey’s
to fuel up and jaw with the truckies.
Though life was a villain,
the lotto, a billion,
don’t play and you’ll never get lucky.
His trailer in Western Kentucky
held laughs like a squeezed rubber ducky—
despite all his blunders,
he matched all the numbers,
the luckiest man in Kentucky.
Even though this is not a poet or poetry related parody as in the challenge, these are excellent limericks for us to enjoy.
Whooooops missed that completely. I’ll try again.
Better?
Poetisserie Raven
I reckon ole Edgar was toking
to think that a bird he was quoting.
Then he got a cravin’—
rotisserie raven,
and changed what it was he was smoking.
Excellent and funny, Michael!
North Coast Suite
Minnesota
There’s a doctor who works in St. Paul
Who can fix fractured necks with an awl
Minneapolis folks
Who’ve grown tired of their yokes
Ought to give this great surgeon a call.
Wisconsin
A policeman patrolling Milwaukee
Thought his uniform made him look gawky,
So to keep himself svelte
He just tightened his belt
And got rid of that damned walkie-talkie.
Illinois
An importer of cheese in Chicago
With an underdeveloped imago,
Even though he knew better
Blew a sneeze on some cheddar
And re-labeled it fresh Asiago.
Indiana
A reporter assigned Terre Haute
Came awake with a pen in her throat.
Since her lover had fled
And had left her for dead,
On her pillowcase “Murder” she wrote.
Michigan
A procurer who lived in Detroit
Had a bevy of babes to exploit.
As a matter of fact
It was clients he lacked,
For his hookers were less than adroit.
These limericks by Kip Anderson are great, and they exemplify something that everyone attempting to write a limerick should know.
Very frequently, the basic source of a limerick is NOT an idea, NOT a narrative, NOT an opinion, and NOT a statement that you want to make. The basic source is the rhymes themselves! If you decide from the start which three A rhymes you are going to use, and you pick them to be perfect, unexpected, and facetious, you can compose the entire limerick around them, twisting any narrative or idea into whatever shape or weird concatenation allows you to use those three rhymes.
Look at Anderson’s “Wisconsin” — its force lies in the three words “Milwaukee,” “gawky,” and “walkie-talkie.” They rhyme perfectly, and yet are completely unrelated, and nevertheless it is around those perfect rhymes and their total disconnection that Kip builds an outstanding limerick.
He does the same thing with “Chicago, imago, Asiago;” and with “Detroit, exploit, adroit.” The actual words come first, and whatever little story or whimsical jeu d’esprit emerges from those three words is just a wonderful and surprising development. And this is what makes a great limerick great — a strange, silly, comic, and humorous flippancy is born that delights the reader, with no logical consistency or plan other that the desire to be amusing! If on the other hand, you were to start with an “idea” for the limerick, you’d immediately be trapped into choosing proper rhymes that support your idea, and this would be limiting and constrictive. Or even worse, you’d be forced to use near or slant rhymes, which are utterly fatal in limericks.
As for the two medial B rhymes, they simply provide a bit of connective stitching to give plausibility, and to prepare the reader for the final punchline.
I’m bringing this up to show that limericks are almost always PURE fictive mimesis, with no didactic purpose or syllogistic coherence or “higher goal.” They are just pure wordplay. And this why people love them.
C.B. even though these are not written about poetry or poets as presented in the challenge, I enjoyed these immensely. Dr. Salemi made some great points about writing limericks, and your out-of-nowhere ideas and great rhyme choices resound in his and my analysis. Thank you for sharing the fun.
I love these, especially your rhymes for Chicago.
MUSES GOT INTO A FIGHT
By Roy E. Peterson
It was not long after midnight
Two muses got into a fight.
The poet said, quoth,
“I still love you both
But give me a rest for tonight.”
PURPLE COW SHAKE
By Roy E. Peterson
Wit, Ogden Nash, reported how
He never saw a purple cow.
But grape milk shakes mixed
In my town were fixed.
So, I drank some I thus avow.
ROBERT FROST STOPPED BY SNOWY WOODS
By Roy E. Peterson
Robert Frost stopped by snowy woods.
His horse didn’t think it was good.
The horse hated snow;
They had miles to go.
Let us not stay in this “neigh”-borhood.
WHAT LURKS IN A POET’S HEART
By Roy E. Peterson
Some poets have a funny quirk
That deep within their heart doth lurk.
He wrote Jezebel
Was a hound from hell.
Bad words were not used in his work.
WILLIAM BLAKE MET A TIGER
By Roy E. Peterson
Into jungle walked Sir William Blake.
The bushes soon there started to shake.
Much to his surprise
He saw tiger eyes.
The kind that was real and not fake.
A limerick needs to be rude.
At the very least it should be crude.
If you can’t make it flirty,
or nasty or dirty,
At least make it loathsome or lewd.
My apologies for this one. 🙂
Apologies accepted but not needed. You were exactly correct about limericks, at least in the past being bawdy and suggestive. This is the perfect presentation of their original and primary purpose. Please do not apologize too much, for I have one about Moby Dick above that is about my only suggestive poem and/or limerick.
The very best and funniest limericks are sexual, because they have a sauciness and spice to them that pops the balloon of high-toned pretentiousness and propriety. They say what we dare not say in public, lest repressed people get upset.
Here are two of the best – not dirty or obscene, but highly sexed and provocative. One is about music, and the other is about painting.
A young violinist in Rio
Was seduced by a lady named Cleo.
As she pulled down her panties
She said “No andantes…
I want this allegro con brio.”
While Titian was mixing rose madder,
His model reclined on a ladder.
Her position to Titian
Suggested coition,
So he leapt up the ladder and had her.
The first is a brilliant conception using musical phraseology to create two metaphors of sexual speed (a slow-moving andante or a quick and lively allegro con brio). The second makes masterly use of internal rhyme (position/Titian and ladder/had her).
The crucial requirement in a limerick is that it be sharp, witty, insouciant, and as unexpected as a sudden firecracker. It can’t be soft and sweet and icky-poo.
Understood and those are two amazingly titilating lyrics.
A sad old Venetian Jew
Lent some gold to a merchant he knew
But the merchant defaulted
And the Jew was exalted
By the thought of the payment in lieu
Interesting selection.
From her balcony Juliet cried
That her Romeo was cruelly despised.
His Montague name
Was the cause of the blame
And the reason both tragically died
This one fits the story perfectly!
Hamlet was known oft to boast
That his father appeared as a ghost
It drove him quite mad
That his evil step-dad
Was the one who stood to gain mast.
I really love this one Iain! I know the last word “mast” should be “most.”
LONGFELLOW WRITING HIAWATHA
By Roy E. Peterson
Longfellow wrote of Gitche Gumee
While stuffing his mouth and his tummy.
He laughed with mirth.
His food fell to the turf.
He hoped we wouldn’t think him a dummy.
WRITING WITH ALLITERATION
By Roy E. Peterson (January 6, 2026)
The poet had a situation
To be solved with alliteration.
With first letter “k,”
It took him all day.
His poem received admiration.
WRITING AND RYE DON’T MIX
By Roy E. Peterson
The poet loved his apple pie
But then would drink glasses of rye.
When he went to bed,
He was out of his head.
The next day he read his sci-fi.
ROBERT BURNS FINDS THE MICE
By Roy E. Peterson
Robert Burns liked to plow up the earth.
He found some mice under the turf.
He said they could stay
But they ran away
They knew what his words might be worth.
Poe-tisserie Raven
I reckon ole Edgar was tokin’
to think that some bird he was quotin’.
Then he got the cravin’–
rotisserie raven,
and changed what it was he was smokin’.
Michael, I love the thought of roasting the raven and changing what he was “smokin.'” Very funny and beautifully done.
Sorry for the double entry. But heck, it’s worth a second read.
No problem. Glad you did. I almost missed it the first time as a sub-sub post. Likely most missed it.
Anna the Pest (Anapest)
The beauty who wears those tight dresses
is Anna the Pest of Lu Blessus.
That feminine ending
in rhythm–mind bending–
is worth all those turbulent stresses.
Great one, Michael! Super entendre and thank you for pointing it out at the beginning.
The Silly Cat
There once was a silly black cat
Who thought he could fly like a bat.
He jumped up so high
To soar in the sky,
But fell to the floor with a “splat!”
–©️ Rupali Mistry, India
Another funny one, Rupali!
Thank you so much
I screamed as the lynch mob drew closer,
“I’m Cinna the Poet! No! No, sir!
I must have forgotten
You think my songs rotten.
I meant to say Cinna the Grocer.”
(See Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 3, based on Plutarch)
Well done, Morrison, and thank you for the reference note to help us.
POETS ARE LIKE A GHOST
By Roy E. Peterson
Poets are writers like ghosts.
What they mean may be lost on most.
Double entendre
May take men’s breath away.
The perception depends on the host.
POET’S BELIEVE WORDS ARE GOLD
By Roy E. Peterson
Poets believe words are gold,
“How great you write is what they’re told.”
They publish a book
Into which few look.
Many have their great works left unsold.
THE THESPIAN
By Roy E. Peterson
The thespian loved poetry,
Especially page fifty-three
It wasn’t too hard
To quote the great bard
“That which cannot be, will not to be.”
These are all great. The second one especially resonates with me. I have had two books published. Each time I’ve sold
75 or so copies. The first one was a bucket-list item!
In sharing a birthday with Nietzsche’s
I balance my rational features,
With the need to enjoy,
My sexy tomboy,
And her appetites lewd as a creature’s.
As Auden has previously sung,
Death visits the beauteous young.
The sweet as pure honey,
The smiley and sunny,
And those with a heavenly bum.
Saucy and satirical but sad state of affairs. Nicely done. Note: You will find my comment about your Nietzsche poem a little later. The site did not show your other limericks when I wrote that one. I just returned to find two more.
A pretty young nun from Hong Kong,
Said Auden’s blue verse was quite wrong;
The bishop she knew
Was short by a few,
And finished her off with a song.
You have made me scramble back to look at Auden’s blue verses. This is another good contribution.
Mercy, Clive! Interesting intersection of your birthday with Nietzsche’s along with your tomboy’s appetites!
‘Jaws’ Filmerick
The Mayor is a miserable toad;
The Cop has an honourable code.
The Expert gets beaten,
The Captain gets eaten,
The Shark? Well, it gets to explode.
This one sent my mind “reeling.” (I hope the entendre comes through.)
JOHN BARLEYCORN
By Roy E. Peterson
Burns wrote about John Barleycorn
Who grew knee high and then was shorn.
The catcher of rye
Drank the pitcher dry
And then rued the day he was born.
Poet Note
RE: Robert Burns Poem “John Barleycorn” and the book,
“Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger.
POEMS OF e. e. cummings
By Roy E. Peterson
A poet who was e. e. cummings
Flaunted rules of writing becomings.
He thought he was slick
With his crummy shtick
But nothing he wrote is welcomings.
VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
By Roy E. Peterson
“Under a spreading chestnut tree,”
The blacksmith pounded angrily.
Then he had to gasp
When he lost his grasp,
For he was sweating heavily.
Emily met with her kind cousin Guy
Who consoled her soul in its fear to die–
When, she heard a buzz,
Asking, “What’s that cuz?”–
And he answered– “Why it’s only a fly.”
“I Heard a Fly Buzz – When I Died” is one of Emily Dickinson’s best regarded poems. I love your limerick on this spoof.
Not Again!
Today I’ve no cause for elation.
My inbox brings deep consternation.
Three emails I see
say, “Your poetry
is not right for our publication.”
Tell the Truth!
Some poetry publishers say,
“Send ALL types of poems our way,”
but they print not ONE rhyme,
just free verse all the time.
The full TRUTH, their rules should convey!
Coleridge
Some drug addicts wallow in grime
or fall into mayhem and crime,
but some rise to fame
as poets. One name
stands out. This one wrote a great Rime.
Janice, these are wonderful limericks. The first two ring so true. I used to send to poetry publishers some of my poems only to discover they only print poetry that doesn’t rhyme (or rime) as the case may be.
Janice, these are wonderful limericks. The first two ring so true. I used to send to poetry publishers some of my poems only to discover they only print poetry that doesn’t rhyme (or rime) as the case may be.
Roy, thank you so much for the positive feedback!
I CREMATED SAM McGEE (Robert Service)
By Roy E. Peterson (April 6, 2026)
The cremation of Sam McGee
I did to him in Tennessee.
He sought to keep warm
From the cold and storm.
He burned in the furnace happily.
CROSSING THE BAR (By Alfred Lord Tennyson)
By Roy E. Peterson (April 6, 2026)
There was no moaning at the bar
When patrons thought he had gone too far.
He slurped his last foam
Before going home.
And then he was plastered in his car.
THE OWL AND PUSSYCAT
(Mother Goose)
By Roy E. Peterson
The owl and pussycat went to sea.
In a boat that was small as can be.
The cat got hungry.
The owl got owly.
How scary was that nursery.
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
(Harper Lee)
By Roy E. Peterson
Tom wanted to kill
(Harper Lee) a mockingbird
Outside his window; the noise absurd.
Tom set out some ale
In a small tin pale.
The bird still sings songs but they’re slurred.
WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS
(Shel Silverstein)
By Roy E. Peterson
Where the sidewalk ends, the mud begins.
The kids fall in it up to their chins.
Skateboarders skin knees
With ripped dungarees,
They pay for sins and shenanigans.
Metre Maid
To prepare your poetic bouquet,
You need names that are easy to say,
So if you feel a tactile,
Need for an antidactyl,
How ‘bout Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Aaron, that is a great one with a great title!
or
METRE MAID
To prepare your poetic bouquet,
You need names that are easy to say,
If you’re trying to wrest,
Out a good anapest,
Try out Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Or alternatively,
METRE MAID
To prepare your poetic bouquet,
You need names that are easy to say,
If you’re trying to wrest,
Out a good anapest,
Try out Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Thanks, Roy. I hate it when I shoot from the hip and immediately think of a better phrasing. I can’t believe how poliferimeric you are.
Aaron, you are not alone. Often, I have the same problem. After I have sent something, my mind suddenly finds better words or phrasing. Thank you for assessing my production from my short bio. As of today, I have written 6,856 poems.
NOISELESS PATIENT SPIDER (Walt Whitman)
By Roy E. Peterson
I spied a noiseless patient spider.
He was hanging beside my cider.
When I took a drink,
He fell in sink.
Then I pushed it in the grinder.
MESSAGE, RHYME, AND METER
By Roy E. Peterson
The message is what makes poems burn.
Then its rhyme and meter in turn.
The message brings light.
Why else would we write.
It’s the message that makes others yearn.
WRITING FREE VERSE
By Roy E. Peterson
The poet thought he’d try free verse.
In his words he soon would immerse.
Like moderns do
His words were pooh pooh.
Nothing he’d written was worse.
WRITING ONLY IN IAMBIC METER
By Roy E. Peterson
The poet wrote only iambic,
Which made him depressively manic
He wrote a trochee
And then had to pee.
The word had caused his mind to panic.
If there’s no toilet nearby, we panic. Anyone who’s experienced this knows this. A powerful poem 🙂
Agreed, Urszula! Thank you for commenting.
The Abyss of Love
Without Amontillado, Edgar Allan Poe,
standing by a well with a pendulum and a doe,
quickly drank a pint of porter,
then jumped into the water,
searching for the still-unborn Marilyn Monroe.
Urszula, what an imaginative limerick! That is something Poe might have done! Sorry to be so late seeing this.
I loved reading Poe. I think it’s time to get back into it 🙂 I noticed I wasn’t the only one who reached for this author. Thank you for such a kind comment. It’s been a while since I wrote limericks, and this is my first one in English 🙂
A worthy wordsmith
The words of William Wordsworth though old
Are really worth their weight in gold.
They’re widely recognized,
Easily cognized,
And at worst will bring us joy, untold!
Insect instincts
At times I have a bee in my bonnet
to write a haiku, ode or sonnet,
or something of that kind
whatever comes to mind
and just end up mad as a hornet!
Intriguing. It’s impossible to read it and not react 🙂
And if we don’t write these words down right away, they’ll disappear forever.