Definitely Limericks: Bi-Bn

This all-time best-seller is liable
To portrayal by some as too pliable:
No few have attacked
The arrayal of “fact”
In the Bible as unverifiable.

Bibliography: Name-ordered list
Of references; these can consist
Of articles, books,
And the like. (Well, it looks
Like we’re done, so let’s go and play whist.)

Methuselah boasted, “My dears,
I’ve confirmed all my enemies’ fears:
I’ve neglected to die,
And so celebrate my
Bicentenary—200 years!”

Methuselah’s story continues...

When a cyclist with tastes kinda blue
Spotted twins, he knew just what to do:
He would roundly demand ’em,
“Let’s do it in tandem—
This bicycler’s well-built for two.”

The crewman asked, “Why have we hidden
Our casket of gold in this midden?”
Said the mate, “So a pirate
Won’t stop to admire it.
Keep digging, lad! Do as you’re bidden!”

Reproductively, Big Foot agreed
That his prospects were hopeless indeed:
He’d be heirless, unless he
Had congress with Nessie
And fathered a Big Centipede.

The Big Mac index measures the price
Of a burger, a handy device
For comparing one place
With another. One case:
In Malaysia, one-seventy—nice.

The Economist has been publishing annual lists comparing this lighthearted measure of purchasing-power parity with the exchange rates of major currencies since 1986. The 2008 price in Malaysia, 5.50 ringgit or US$1.70, suggested an undervaluation of its currency of 52% against the US, where the average price was $3.57.

When your projects are biogenetic,
The critics become energetic:
“No experiments using
Our genes! You’re abusing
Your role!” (They prefer the synthetic?)

Biogenetics is a technique for producing scarce biological substances (such as human insulin) by introducing plant or animal DNA into bacteria and harvesting the resulting bacterial colony.

Nature made you the person you are;
Just accept it and you will go far.
You can’t blame your strife
On the foes in your life.
Now get in the back of the car.

Biological determinism.

“Chirpy chirpy,” says birdie, “cheep cheep,”
Interrupting my slumberful sleep.
All his cheeping’s too chirpy,
And makes me all urpy.
You’re four hours early, you creep!

This chile is fiendishly hot—
Around six-figure Scovilles, it’s got.
It’s named for the eye
Of a bird. You know why?
Rub your eyes, you’ll fly off like a shot.

Bird’s-eye chile peppers measure 100,000 to 225,000 on the Scoville heat unit scale, compared with 2,500-8,000 for jalapenos. They’re actually named for their small size.

Waiter! There’s straw in my soup!
And feathers, and some kinda goop.
It’s saliva? A swallow’s?
From nests? Then it follows
That this stuff is... let’s ask the group.

The swallows’ nests used to make bird’s nest soup are actually picked clean and washed before use, so you won’t find any feathers or... things that rhyme with soup.

Waiter! This soup’s for the birds—
Quite literally. There are no words
For the sight of a nest
In a bowl; and the rest
Is disgusting! What are those things? Curds?

Give me birdsong: so subtle, so sweet!
So expressive, with such a fair beat!
Who could ever forget
That divine minuet,
“Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet”?

I biroed this limerick by hand
With a biro, or ballpoint; I’d planned
To delight you in cursive,
But ink is dispersive
When drawn from a second-rate brand.

All the knowledge and riches on earth
Can’t begin to approach what it’s worth
To have seen it all through
And be welcoming you
To the world at your moment of birth.

For William.

Your birthplace is where you were born.
In youth, you may say that you scorn
All its foibles and flaws
And abandon its shores,
But in age, that may leave you forlorn.

Mrs Quail said, “I don’t wanna gwouse,
But this cweature keeps chewing me, spouse.”
Mr Q. said, “That true?
Then he’s gnawing on two...
Time to quit with the biting, you louse!”

The beastly biting louse mainly nibbles the birds.

Thistorrentofdatatransmits
incontinuoussequenceitsbits
inarushdownthepipes
oftheinternet—yipes!
This is hardly a stream, it’s a blitz!

A bivvy bag (bivouac sack)
Takes the place of a tent in your pack
When you’ve mountains to climb,
But ain’t wasting no time
Lugging canvas and poles on your back.

Bivvy bags are lightweight waterproof shells designed to slip over sleeping bags and provide additional insulation and protection against the elements, for those times when there ain’t no mountain high enough to make it worth carrying a tent.

My website on Chaucer’s a floppe;
Its oversized giffes need a croppe!
I wouldst change or biwrixle
Each opptional pixel
If onlie I hadst Photoshoppe.

A word for transform last recorded in 1225, which predates even Chaucer.

Bizarrely, the Boozer’s Bazaar
Sells its fortified port by the jar
And its brandy in buckets...
It’s bloody good luck it’s
Just seventeen minutes by car.

So you fancy a bout of bizarreness?
Here, put on this saddle and harness,
Then chomp on this bit
And allow me to sit
On your back... why the look of such farness?

Whatcha mean, I don’t show enough flair
For Reporter with Soft Toy Repair?
I know how to wheedle,
I’m good with a needle,
And gotta BJ and a bear!

Beware of the hazards that lurk
In the name of the Icelander, Björk:
She’ll let out a squawk
At “Buh-yorrk” or “Buh-jawk”;
Mispronouncing it drives her berserk.

Critics might say that said squawks form the basis of much
of her recorded output, but I would never be so mean.

Americium tremors all jerk’ly
When hammered with ions berserkly.
The radioactive
Result is attractive:
It’s berkelium, named after Berkeley.

“How I wish I were born as a panda,”
She pined, with bamboozling candour.
“Life’s simple, all right,
When it’s all black-and-white.”
I’m suspecting Chinese propaganda.

The blackberry grows in a thicket
Of thorns—any finger, they’ll prick it—
But tastes so inviting
I long to start biting,
And scramble through brambles to pick it.

You’re a black-hearted, venomous hack, mister
And you? You’re a stab in the back, sister.
So what if I’m red?
Least my conscience ain’t dead—
By Stalin’s mustache, I’m no blacklister!

Black pudding is food for a king:
These delectable sausages wring
All the best from the pig,
Though there’s always some prig
Who objects to the whole bloody thing.

She was, “Blah blah blah, blah-blah de blah.”
I was, “Ha ha ha hardy ha ha!”
She was, “Hmmph! Grr grr GRRR!”
I was, “Yipe! Erm, uh, errr...”
She was, “Uh-uh. ‘Ha ha’? Huh. Ta-ta.”

As Bugs, Mr Blanc was just swell,
And as Tweety and Porky as well.
Now he’s gone, R.I.P.
“Th-th-thee-th-th-thee-
th-th-thee-th-that’s all, folks!” from Mel.

Fletcher Christian sent off William Bligh,
Without charts or a means of supply,
In a small open boat.
Forty-six days afloat!
But the blighter neglected to die.

“I’m your innermost fantasy—try me!
I’m your rocket to paradise—fly me!
I’m your secret desire—
I make temperatures higher!
I’m the night you’ve been waiting for!”      “Blimey.”

When he gave her a single red rose
And she suddenly, wordlessly, froze,
Blind Freddy could tell
That the outcome would smell.
Even blokes with bad eyes have a nose.

It’s blowing a blizzard out there;
It’s snowing and freezing the air.
The world’s turning white,
So it’s winter, all right.
Just a shame that I’m no polar bear.

You’re a blockhead, you are, Charlie Brown!
You’re the stupidest kid in our town.
When I’m holding the ball,
You repeatedly fall
For my trick, and you flip upside down.

—You’re a passable handyman, Prof,
But you knew that we had to block off
Just the window, that’s all?
—Yes, I did: there’s the wall.
—Well, you’ve blocked off the passageway! —Cough.

My blog is a site that’s been dogged
By each niggle and struggle that’s clogged
Up my chockablock brain;
Every link looks germane,
So I blog ’em and end up befogged.

In the Offal Champs Cook-Off tonight,
The contestants won’t whimper—they’ll fight.
They’ll pummel each heart
And slice livers apart.
It’s a blood-and-guts battle, all right.

That blood blister under her thumb
Is a sign of how utterly dumb
Is my bloody big sister.
The door would have missed her,
But who had her hand stuck out? Um...

I awake from a terrible dream
To a hideous, blood-curdling scream.
“Oh my God! What was that?”
“It vos only a bat,”
Says Count Dracula, canines agleam.

Blood oranges make a fine juice
From flesh that’s deliciously puce.
I guzzle a flood,
’Cos it’s good for the blood,
Though it’s not like I need an excuse.

So, let’s write a piece on blood orange,
That bloody impossible rhyme.
Its flesh is blood-red,
But its surface is blue.
(Just kidding. It’s orange, of course.)

The singer yelled, “Hey, man, that’s wack!”
As his mellowness started to crack.
“Brother, don’t blow your cool,”
Said his manager. “You’ll...”
Five percent? Man, I’m blowing my stack!”

At the wedding of Percy the Plover,
Cock Robin cried, “Stop it! I love her!
All’s not what it seems!
She’s the bird of my dreams!”
Cried Miss Blue Tit, “You’re blowing my cover!”

The tit had intended, of course, to take Percy for a ride.

He gave his mate Kevin a nudge,
Saying, “Kev, I ain’t holdin’ a grudge,
But ten years on the dole?
Mate, it’s outta control.
Look, I’m sorry, but strewth, what a bludge.”

There isn’t a skill that you’ve mastered
(Except, I suppose, getting plastered).
You loaf ’round the house,
And you sponge off yer spouse:
Yer a bludger, ya pitiful bastard.

If blue angels and devils now leap
Through blue heavens and over blue sheep,
And the sedative you
Took sedately was blue,
Amobarbital’s sent you to sleep.

Them bluegrass performers sure quicken
Their pace with their pluckin’ and pickin’
When folks paddle by...
Ain’t got no idea why
It makes all o’ them city boys chicken.

Give us this day our daily bread, and deliverance from banjos.

No matter how widely I roam,
Seeing blue gums reminds me of home.
They’re the mightiest oaks
To Tasmanian blokes:
Our invaders of other folks’ loam.

Eucalyptus globulus, the floral emblem of Tasmania, has been planted worldwide, and is so abundant in California that some there mistake it for a native.

BMX is the sporting sensation
That’s sweeping the youth of the nation!
It’s the motocross bike
That the teenagers like
Even more than they do mastur... ansit.

Oh, look, darling—what do you know!
It’s old what’s-his-name. Jolly good show!
And you just heard him shout...
Was it... “immigrants out”?
(He’s a BNP member. Let’s go.)

Some parties are better left.

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