Definitely Limericks: Br-Bt
The work of the genius Brahms
Is brimful of musical charms.
His Symphony 2
Is a pastoral brew—
Good for calming down cattle on farms.
Doc, this pâté of yours is exquisite.
It goes in the blender, then whiz it?
At least that explains
How you’re using your brains!
But it’s hardly brain surgery, is it?
A brat pack’s a group of celebs,
Ostentatious and young, who the plebs
All recall for their rowdiness;
Intrudes as their youthfulness ebbs.
The Brat Pack most movie fans know
Were the stars of two decades ago.
Here’s the roll that most call:
Sheedy, Ringwald, Moore, Hall,
A. McCarthy, Judd Nelson, Rob Lowe.
If you’re thinking of breaking apart
Heavy rocks into fragments, the art
Is to strike them a blow
With a hammer, or so
Said the convicts, who knew it by heart.
Jack and Jill had a risky attraction
To Sunday adventure and action,
Which ended in fleeing
Their church to go skiing...
This breakaway faction’s in traction.
The captain sets foot from the pod,
And, removing his helmet, says, “Odd—
The air’s breathable, yet
What’s that smell? I forget...
Oh, ammonia. And... chlorine? Dear G...”
Brecciation’s the breaking apart
Of a rock into fragments, the start
Of a new brecciation
It’d break a geologist’s heart!
They’re a sedimental bunch. Brecciation refers to the formation of breccia, sedimentary rocks made of sharp fragments of other rocks, but has a secondary meaning of the related process of breaking apart.
The unlovely portmanteau word Brexit
Is shorthand for Britain and exit,
As in “from the EU”.
Say it turns out we do:
Our economy—what if it fecks it?
Brid is a word that I’ve heard
Was ye olden-days English for bird.
Why’s the middle transposed?
Well, I guess they supposed
That the other way round was absrud.
First his chest felt a terrible tightness;
Then his head an exceptional lightness.
Then his spirit broke free
And proceeded to flee
Down the tunnel that led to the brightness.
I’ve brought forward the punchline, my dear.
Just in case my conceit isn’t clear
And you can’t see what’s happening here,
I’ll remove any doubt
By spelling it out.
His wife called him near-paralytic;
His Mum and his Dad, parasitic;
His sister, a git;
His vicar, a twit.
He brings out the worst in a critic.
Whole suburbs lie drowned in the mud,
Foreshores covered in rubbish and crud.
When the river here peaks,
What destruction it wreaks...
Queensland’s capital, Brisbane, in flood.
The Brisbane River flooded most recently in 1974 and 2011, taking lives and damaging thousands of homes and businesses.
In imperial days, we called Britain
The island where greatness was written.
As many have grumbled,
The Empire has crumbled—
It’s here in the damp we’re left sittin’.
The absolute essence of Britishness?
A resolute absence of skittishness
(They ruled all the waves—
Never, never were slaves!)
And an upper class known for its twittishness.
Our political parties all lurch
From the left to the right as they search
For the middlemost ground.
The successful have found
That the voters reward a broad church.
When the buffalo roam by your home
And this grass is what grows in your loam,
Don’t discourage the herd:
It’s the forage preferred
By all bison—a nice ’un, is brome.
They like buffalo grass too, natch.
Many brownstone apartments were rank:
Claustrophobic, neglected, and dank.
But astute renovation
Have made them look terribly swank.
The science and techie types say,
“B.Sc.? I would study all day—
But only a loony
Would turn up to uni
For only a bloody B.A.”
But as any arts student will tell you, there’s no need to turn up. (See, as someone with a foot in both camps, I can say these things.)
“That cow looks suspicious to me...
Hasn’t moved since 2.30, I see.”
“Aye, our Bessie’s insane.
It’s her spongiform brain—
BSE. Now she thinks she’s a tree.”
“BT,” the caller intones,
“Phone hoooome!”—and Elliott moans.
British Telecom’s bill
Needs an ’ell of a till
When an alien uses their phones.