Author: Stephen Bobbett

I don’t have a limerick today
Had I written one, what would it say?
Would I even have time
To find some good rhymes?
And what weirdo writes poems, anyway?

An aged and flourishing tree
Keeps the sun from the sapling beneath
As its golden leaves dither
The younger tree withers
For a future that neither will see

These obscene, exhibitionist trees
With their pollen and seasonal sleaze
You might think I’m a prude
But it’s quite blooming rude
How their lovemaking’s making me sneeze

There was a space pirate named Ridley
Whose fight was a pain-riddled medley
My missile barrage
Was to him a massage
And my plasma beams didn’t do diddly

I moved to New England for seasons
So it seems like a spiritual treason
To feel stuck like a magnet
So frigid and stagnant
And longing for more arid regions