Definitely Limericks: De-Dh
“Your project is doomed, a dead duck,”
He informed me. “You’re flat out of luck.
It’s had it. Kaput.
It’s been crushed underfoot.
And it’s your fault, you featherbrain.” “Cluck.”
You’ve taken your ultimate breath
In the clutches of Cawdor’s Macbeth.
Is a dagger the cause
Of the infinite pause
That now draws from this instant of death?
“Wearing nothing at all makes you nude,
And to do so in public is rude.
Claiming neither is true
Is the wrong thing to do!”
I can’t stand his declarative mood.
In grammar, the declarative mood indicates without any qualification that a statement is true. In some linguistic models, it is directly equivalent to the indicative mood; in others, it is one type of it.
As I coughed, his expression turned weighty.
“Your lungs are a basket case, matey.
To best decongest them,
I suggest that you rest them.
Stop breathing and count up to eighty.”
Pretty girls, whose enchanting “come hither”
Enticements send boys yon and thither,
Find none of that lasts.
Those who charmed in their pasts,
In decrepitude, find that they wither.
Our ambassador Voyagers race
To new places beyond Sol’s embrace,
Heading into the zone
That is commonly known
By us Earthlings back home as deep space.
You’re enchanting, I hear,
To those ruminant nibblers, the deer.
Your evergreen fronds
Will, like magical wands,
Cause severe hunger pangs to appear.
The evergreen deer fern, Blechnum spicant, is native to Eurasia and western North America, where it is often cultivated for deer.
When you hear it, you now bring to mind
The main senses and meanings behind
All its letters and sounds.
This defined word is therefore defined.
Don’t wrinkle your nose in disgust
At the sight of your pudding’s burnt crust.
If Grandmother made it,
You’ll never evade it.
Degust it with gusto—you must.
You’re skipping dessert? What a waste!
Oh, my dears, just the teensiest taste!
A small degustation
These samples should bring round the chaste.
In ye olden days, buying a goat
Might have cost you four pennies—a groat—
While a demigroat—half—
Might have bought you a calf,
If you got an exceptional quote.
It would have to have been. In fourteenth-century England, sheep (and presumably goats) cost between 4d. and 1s. 4d., but cattle cost upwards of six shillings. At various stages in history, the groat was valued from 4d. to 8d. to a shilling, with a half-groat or demigroat being worth from tuppence to fourpence to sixpence accordingly.
“A hung parliament? Surely you’re jokin’!”
Yes, the voters of Britain have spoken,
And they all disagree.
Sounds normal to me—
Who says our democracy’s broken?
In memory of the 2010 UK General Election.
Mighty Lucifer, let me be your
Demonographer: I will ensure
That your evils are written
(In blood. Of a kitten.)
And nailed to the nearest church door.
Not a genuine request. Please don’t smite me.
To reject all the evidence strains
All credulity; still, some take pains
To discount what we know
(“How’s it warming? There’s snow!”)
About climate. Denialism reigns.
In the frosty Siberian ground,
A Denisovan pinky was found.
Its genes have revealed
The truth it concealed:
Descendants, still roaming around.
The 2008 discovery of a fingertip bone has redrawn our family tree. The ancestors of Denisovans and Neanderthals separated from modern humans up to 700,000 years ago, but when the groups met again during later migrations they appear to have interbred. Papuans carry about 3% Denisovan DNA.
When the Earth is completely depleted,
Its atmosphere too overheated,
Each forest defeated
And species maltreated,
Our children are bound to feel cheated.
A relentless array of successive
Disasters has led to progressive
Erosion of my
Self-esteem, which is why
I’m depressive: ’cos they were depressive.
When an enemy enters the fray,
Don’t engage him in muddled mêlée;
To really convulse him,
You need to depulse him:
To thrust him and drive him away.
Though once it was thought de rigueur
For the formally dressed to wear fur,
Fashion etiquette now
Simply doesn’t allow
One to don what would formerly purr.
Now that Kruschev is running the show,
Let’s de-Stalinize: no Uncle Joe.
All these streets with his name
Are a Soviet shame;
Those moustachioed statues can go.
Though the Soviets used to exalt
Stalin’s memory, this came to a halt
That’s removing not statues, but salt.)
The Development Fund for Iraq
Was established once Bush’s attack
Had succeeded; yes, now
He could solemnly vow
That his plan was to give something back.
It was all about the giving all along!
Do you reckon you’re some kind of hero
As you nuke this desired ground zero?
Once your DGZ burns
You shall reap the returns.
Face the music, you latter-day Nero.
The sight of an Arabic dhow
Would in olden days dampen the brow
Of a man on the shore,
As the slavers who bore
Down upon him would soon have him now.
Dhuine-wassals were Scotsmen of rank,
With the Highland clan system to thank.
They were gentlemen, though
Rarely gentle, and so
I’m relieved there weren’t lots, to be frank.
Well, Sir Walter Scott did once write of “wild Duniewassals three thousand times three” who cried “hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee”, which would put the frighteners on me if my name were Dundee and I wore a bonnet.