Definitely Limericks: Cl-Co

“Pray, hush now, and let down thy hair!”
Calls the prince to the maiden so fair,
So that lusty Rapunzel
Unwinding her buns’ll
Allow him to clamber up there.

Clamber is a variant spelling of clamour (a synonym of clam, to silence, the likely source of the expression clam up), as well as being what manly princes do in the presence of long hair.

In Cambridge, the bridge the most fair
Is the one at the college of Clare.
The surfeit of balls
On its elegant walls
Lends each crossing a May-Week-ish air.

Oh, tell me of clarified butter!
I’ll melt at the secrets you utter.
When mustard seeds sputter,
My heart starts to flutter—
Ghee whiz, I’m a curry-mad nutter.

Any dude who knows Latin says “shame!”
When you call what you deprecate lame.
He knows it’s more mordicant
Calling it claudicant
Both mean entirely the same.

Unreliable engine goes “conk”;
Uncontrollable clunker goes “bonk”.
Inconsolable victim
Enunciates dictum:
“Ensure that your claxon goes ‘honk’!”

On clearways, you clearly don’t stop—
Ask any respectable cop.
You do and you’ll find
You get hit from behind,
’Cos your driving’s all over the shop.

Cleavage cavities aren’t gaps in chests,
So enough of your blasphemous jests.
The new embryo’s sphere
Full of fluid—in here
Is this blastocoel. Later come breasts.

The blastocoel is the fluid-filled cavity inside the blastula, the early-stage embryo produced by cleavage of an ovum.

How clement the weather is, darling!
How clear the sweet call of the starling!
How cloudless the skies!
What a joy to mine eyes!
Tell me, what’s given rise to thy snarling?

“Click here!” screams the banner ad, “Quick!
Punch the monkey!” Your eyes start to flick.
“Press the top of your mouse
And you could win a house!”
Yeah, as if... click click click click click click.

The clicket goes knockety-knock
On the door, with a clickety-clock
And a knockety-clickety,
Clockety-knickety—
STOP it! I’m stuck on the lock!

As I cling to the edge of this ledge,
I shall sing you this dignified pledge:
Should my fingerhold crumble,
I shan’t linger or grumble—
I’ll fling myself into that sedge.

If it’s valuable, though you may think it
Too delicate, really, to clink it,
If it glitters of gold
Or of silver, behold:
It is clinquant, this intricate trinket.

When I first saw Room 101’s clock,
It was striking thirteen, to my shock.
Now the clock has struck one,
And the rats have begun
Singing “Hickory Dickory Dock”.

Doc, I know that the herb in your pot
Is biennial, and that it’s got
A stout taproot, and comes
From Eurasia, but crumbs—
Any clotbur has burs on, you clot.

It’s also known as the burdock.

I was clueless. “What happened? Oh, poo!
I hit Enter, and now the screen’s blue.
Does it mean that it’s dead,
Or it doesn’t like red?
To be honest, I haven’t a clue.”

Called tech support: “What do I do?”
His clueful reply: “The screen’s blue?
Turn the switch off and on.”
So I did—problem’s gone.
What a genius! Who knows how he knew?

My clumsiness typifies me
As a person of height (six foot three):
We distinguish ourselves
By colliding with shelves,
Or a doorframe or low-hanging tree.

If a site’s full of words, this can twist ’em
In multiple ways; if you missed ’em,
It serves ’em up twice
So there’s more to entice.
Such a nice content management system!

If you wanna see news, CNN
Will inform you again and again
And again of what’s gone
On today, on and on,
And again and again and again.

To sample this network, get cable,
And all of the news TV’s able
To bring you will gush
In a pitiless rush
Till you wanna hide under the table.

The fur of a witch’s pet cat,
A bowler or stovepipe top hat,
A liquorice stick
Or the heart of Old Nick:
Yes, coal-black is blacker than that.

Coal’s stuck in the hold of our ship,
And to raise it may not be a snip.
What we need is some bloke
Who can scare up that coke—
So whip our coal, coal-whipper! Whip!

Yer a plucky young feller, orright, cock,
And I’ll betcher a bastard to fight, cock,
But I reckon I’ll beatcher,
As soon as the teacher
Has buggered off right outta sight, cock.

Cock once meant someone who fights with pluck or spirit, becoming a vulgar if appreciative form of address in nineteenth-century England. It persisted in Cockney usage, usually addressed to men of unknown name. The transported version, though, is often used in Tasmania to address blokes you know, much the way mate is in the rest of Australia (though with stronger class divisions). It can be perfectly polite in the right circles—say, among working-class schoolboys. Owyergoin’, cock, orright?

The cat wore a battered and faded
Top hat with a ribbon he’d braided.
Said Pat, “Look at that!
There’s a knot on that hat.”
Yes, the hat on the cat was cockaded.

To Banbury Cross on a cock-horse
Rides baby: a toy wooden-block horse
Goes trotting along
To the tot’s ringing song,
With its rider astride her white mock-horse.

“Had a cow of a day, did you, cocky?”
“Like a racin’ horse, mate, with no jockey.
First me wife broke her arm,
Then the bank took our farm.”
“What a shocker.” “Yeah, little bit rocky.”

A cocky or cow-cocky was a cockatoo farmer, a small farmer as opposed to Australia’s major land-owning farmers or squatters. A cow of a day is a rotten one.

Golden syrup on damper? Oh, boy!
And on dumplings? Mm-mmm! Cocky’s joy
On my ice cream? Yes, please!
And this toast? Just a squeeze!
And with Vegemite? ...That would annoy.

You may know it as treacle or mild molasses. Damper is a bush bread, while cocky here refers to the farmers (above).

In the olden days, cold-water flats
Weren’t uncommon, as rentier rats
Wouldn’t pay for hot water
As much as they oughter.
Amenity enmity, that’s.

When a geezer’s called fella or bloke,
Such descriptions we label colloq.
Hey, dude, they’re informal,
But perfectly normal—
Don’t fix ’em; the language ain’t broke.

That Samson is huge, a colossus.
Don’t piss the man off, or he’ll toss us
From pillar to post.
Just make like a ghost,
And hope that he don’t run across us.

From a circle with roughly scrawled grin
To a stick-figure lanky and thin,
Over time, kids express
Their artistic side less,
Till they’re left merely colouring in.

Black and white were the shades I would see
When I gazed at the tube, age of three,
But the year I turned eight,
Every vision turned great:
Mum and Dad bought a colour TV.

Combustibility causes hostility
When ignition engulfs the nobility.
Yes, combustibleness
Is a burning distress
For a baron who’s lacking agility.

My woman, in bed, is the boss,
But for some things she don’t give a toss.
We could really have fun
Goin’ down under, for one—
It’s her loss if she won’t come across.

This one’s in thickest Strine, where going rhymes with loan and come across means “come round to my way of thinking” or, in relationships, “put out”.

He’s the deafest and densest of men.
They’ll spend the night sweating, yet when
She lies back on the floor
And moans, “Do it once more!”
The poor bastard will ask, “Come again?”

Your prose is the work of a hack,
And is subject, I think, to attack.
Signing off “time will tell”
May in your eyes read well,
But it’s bound to come in for some flack.

Said the teenager, “Goodness, how dandy!
My manhood now grows when I’m randy.
And on closer inspection—
My word! An erection!
That feature should soon come in handy.”

Mate, I reckon you’re onto a winner—
All you need is to ease up on dinner.
She told me her kind
Are the blokes she can’t find...
You’ll be harder to spot if you’re thinner.

So true... hang on. What? “Come in, spinner” is called during the Australian gambling game of two-up (where the spinners are two coins tossed in the air), but also at the end of a wind-up: when someone has been reeled in by the narrator of a fishy yet plausible story, he or she is let off the hook by its utterance. Of course, true masters of the art never actually use it.

It’s the world’s biggest orgy, and how—
Full of thousands of Beatles fans, wow!
All we need now is love,
So let’s hug—and then shove.
Yes, let’s all come together right now.

Masturbation’s a pastime for tools,
And so firmly enjoyed in boys’ schools—
Trying hard as they might
As they practice all night,
Students soon come to grips with the rules.

Having comeliness means that you’re comely,
So someone won’t look on you glumly.
You’re pretty, for sure,
But it takes a bit more
For a chum to succumb to you dumbly.

The telephonist yawned as the laird
Told her how all his properties fared.
But he got his come-uppance:
She handed him tuppence
And said to call someone who cared.

A cormorant sits on a rock
Temporarily, out in the loch.
If he stays for a while,
A wee shag on his pile,
He’s a commorant cormorant, Jock.

To commote is to cause a commotion,
As remote is to foster remotion:
Demotions of note,
Thanks to popular vote,
From the words we all quote with devotion.

What captures each student who delves
In the library’s lesser-used shelves?
The weighty compactus
Is what’ll attract us—
Or make us more compact ourselves.

In Australia, a compactus is a high-density mobile-shelving system, as used in archives and libraries. Sliding one row of shelves into the next can catch browsing Ph.D. students unawares.

Your beaten-up Skoda’s a mess,
But its handy compressibleness
Means that rather than wash it,
You simply could squash it—
The visual effect would be less.

More computerization? No way!
They already have far too much say
In controlling our lives:
A computer deprives
Me of ninety percent of my pay.

The programmer of a computer:
Part-builder and part-trouble-shooter.
Those zeroes and ones
Are all fine if it runs,
But too often the code-word is “neuter”.

As any good author or student
Will tell you, in writing it’s prudent
To bring to a close
Your meandering prose
With a passage that’s clearly concludent.

A concordist compiles a big list
Of the words in a text, to assist
Any readers who find
That it helps them unwind
To discover where Shakespeare said pissed.

As it happens, they’ll find a piss, a pissing, a horse-piss and a pissing-conduit, but no pissed, according to online Shakespeare concordances.

When a couple of corporals congreet,
There are mutual salutes when they meet.
When they’re everyday Joes,
They congreet with hellos.
When they’re babies, they wiggle their feet.

He’s contesting it? This’ll confirm
His paternity: sample his sperm.
You’ll see in each wriggle
His lecherous giggle,
Confirming the guy is a worm.

Conspurcation: the act of defiling,
Which conscienceless types find beguiling.
They spread their pollution,
Escape prosecution,
And boast to their stockholders, smiling.

An ambassador shouldn’t be rude,
So your consular duties include
Helping guests from back home
Be polite “when in Rome”,
Though they question the customs and food.

They said it was good to consume;
That economies thereby would boom.
And they did, for a while;
Then they didn’t. Now I’ll
Consume tins of baked beans in my room.

Consumerism: theory that states
That a future of profits awaits
If we all gobble more.
While its prophets adore
Getting fat, what a fate it creates!

The containerization of trade
Saw the crime on the waterfront fade.
Once a company locks
All its brands in a box,
There’s a shocking amount to be made.

Different crate sizes used to constrain a port
In turnover terms. A containerport
Has a standard container
For ships—a no-brainer.
And that, friends, is how you explain a port.

On the waterfront, owners were greedy
For freighters whose loading was speedy.
What made longshoremen know
They’d been going too slow?
Coulda been a container ship, Edie.

You want to know what’s in a conto?
I’ll tell you in confidence pronto:
A thousand escudos,
And savers accrued those
In Portugal—not in Toronto.

At the time Portugal adopted the euro, a conto was worth 7.0744 of your Canadian dollars (just under €5).

Stick to two unstressed beats, and no more,
Between any you stress, so that your
Humble limerick will scan
For each poetry fan.
(Contradictoriness involves using four.)

They’re convicts, poor blokes, and it’s plain
That their sentence is causin’ ’em pain.
The reason they’re screamin’s
They’re bound for Van Diemen’s
Land, never to leave it again.

It’s terrible, rugged and wild,
And rural, domestic and mild.
If I have to explain, ya
Should visit Tasmania,
The island I loved as a child.

Once the lad she’d been eyeing matured,
Connie planned his seduction: she lured
Vin away from his bike,
Saying, “This, you will like.”
The convincement of Vince was assured.

It walloped her right in the cooch!
As accidents go, that’s an ooch.
Yeah, right in her crotch—
It was painful to watch.
So I gave her a Scotch and a smooch.

I’m gettin’ it on with my hoochie,
And everything’s turnin’ all smoochy.
We’re ready to blow,
When whaddaya know:
She’s a regular Joe, with no coochie.

When describing the bits of a floozie,
You could always use “cooze” or else “coozie”,
Although maybe don’t choose
The one rhyming with “ooze”—
As vagina terms go, it’s a doozie.

A copemate’s a person I hope
Will, in partnership, help me to cope.
The thing that I don’t
Need is someone who won’t,
So I’m sorry my mate’s such a dope.

A copemate is also a foe,
An antagonist set on my woe.
So if one wants my end
And another’s my friend,
How the hell can I capably know?

A druid, a priest and an oracle
Went over some falls in a coracle.
“This boat is too round!”
“Dear God, we’ll be drowned!”
“I’m predicting this rhyme’s allegorical.”

An ancient Brittanical oracle
Declared as he paddled his coracle,
“This round wicker boat
Has a future of note—
It’ll float until annums historical.”

The cornloft is where we store grain
To protect it from dampness and rain.
Up there, near the roof,
Is this granary—proof
That a corny word’s meaning is plain.

Or is it?

Cornwall, the home of the pasty,
Is hilly and pretty, not nasty.
When looking south-west
From a lot of the rest
Of Great Britain, it’s kinda most-last-y.

The coronis: a line, often curved,
That in books has occasionally served
To impart to the world
That the author’s unfurled
(With a flourish) the ending deserved.

The complete works of Melville? Oh, boy—
Now there’s a thought fills me with joy.
The heart of his corpus?
An overgrown porpoise,
And multiple wails of “Ahoy!”

This blanket I’m under is hot.
Do I like all these railings? Do not!
I’ll cry and I’ll scream
Till you rise from your dream.
(It gets rather extreme in my cot.)

The coucher, when hand-making paper,
Lays pulp to be pressed: he’s a draper
Of soggy rag fibres
Which, dried, help inscribers
To further their ink-slinging caper.

First me herd of new Anguses stray,
Then me prize-winning bull turns out gay.
Now me Polls have dried up
And their yield’s a cup.
Strike a light, what a cow of a day.

The Red Poll is a traditional beef and dairy breed. This cow-cocky says yield with two syllables.

Our cow-orkers huddle like cattle
In cubicles; typically, that’ll
Mean trouble a-brewing,
’Cos all of their mooing
Will awkwardly make our nerves rattle.

An intentional misspelling for co-mic effect.

The cowpea is grown as manure
By those for whom cow poo’s impure.
If cows instead eat ’em
And loudly excrete ’em,
It’s peasy to follow their spoor.

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