Category Archives: Limericks

Birthday Limericks, Friends Along the Way, Limericks, Messing About in Boats

What do you hear under the boat?

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There once was a lady named Jacqui,
And her taste in small boats was not wacky.
She knows quick as a jig,
With her fine Freedom rig,
She can rotate the wheel and yell “Tackie!”

It’s her birthday today, and I wish,
That the day brings some cake in a dish,
And a stroll down the dock,
Where she hears, to her shock:
“Happy Birthday To You!” sung by fish.

There is a fish I call Harvey who hangs out under our boat and makes funny “groink” noises. We suspect he is a “croaker” or a “grunt,” as his ability to hold a tune is limited.

In other news, we heard some strange noises in our dinghy this morning, and I thought it was just the wave pattern. A few hours later, as we went to row ashore, Barry discovered a beautiful 12-inch fish in the bottom of the dinghy! If we’d realized that was the source of the earlier noise, we could have had fresh fish for breakfast.

Birthday Limericks, Friends Along the Way, Limericks

Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

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The term “elderly” isn’t the word,
For Da’oud, no, that’s much too absurd.
Though his birthday’s today,
If you asked, he would say,
The word “youngster” is greatly preferred.

This one is for my jeweler-artist friend, currently hanging his shingle at the Arizona Renaissance Festival. The twinkle in his eyes makes him look like a little kid with prematurely gray hair.

His name was so much fun to play with, I wrote a second limerick the next day:

A fellow I knew named Da’oud
Refused to eat all birthday food
He said, “I’ve been told,
…Eating cake makes you old.
And I’m an extremely young dude!”

Limericks, Messing About in Boats, Strange and Silly

Fuzzy-by

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We bought bottom paint, gooey and thick,
And we hoped that it would do the trick,
It was sold as “deluxe” —
It cost TWO hundred bucks,
‘Cause we didn’t want sea life to stick.

And that should be the end of the story,
But the grasses adhered in all glory,
Yes, it’s worse than I feared,
For her fuzzy green beard,
Means she now needs a depilatory.

Limericks, Messing About in Boats

Faster than a speeding pile of junk

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When our gigantic sails are all done,
Then you won’t sit around poking fun,
You’ll be wishing your rig
Was as tall and as big,
As we zoom past the race starting gun.

Barry’s just posted his initial drawings of the new rig for Flutterby. On the Junk Rig Association forum, a couple of folks remarked on the outrageous amount of sail area (50%) added to the boat. That inspired my response, above.
~~~

Friends Along the Way, Guest Verse, Limericks, Strange and Silly

The gift that keeps on giving

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My poor brain’s going nuts, it’s frenetic
As I run though the words, alphabetic.
But this thing that I do,
Well, my Dad does it, too,
So my gift — or my curse — is genetic.

Sometimes limericks run around in my head until I write them down. This email from my Dad, which I received first thing this morning, reminds me that I am not alone in my affliction:

“This kept running around in my head last night,
so I had to get up and put on paper. Hugs, Dad

Marg’s homonyms are soulfully smooth,
Of this I fully approve;
But her limericks are sweet,
Filled with Her Dancing Feet,
They’re keeping us all in the groove!”

Cruising on Flutterby, Limericks, Messing About in Boats, Our Limerick Life, Strange and Silly

Whose ode?

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As dear Flutterby hung on her rode,
We both got in our dinghy and rowed,
To our bikes, which we rode,
Down a nice, level road,
Meanwhile, Margaret composed this, Our Ode.

The problem with limericks is that sometimes they chase me down and refuse to leave me alone. This was one of those. “Go ‘way,” I said, but it didn’t. It followed me on my bike for 5 miles. It’s not even a proper rhyme, just a bunch of homonyms.
-30-

Cruising on Flutterby, Friends Along the Way, Limericks, Messing About in Boats

One good acronym deserves another

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I’m wondering what are the odds
That people who call themselves “CLODs”
Would hang out with SLOBs
Who do not have jobs,
And party with one of their PLODs?

“It would be nice to find out about the weekly cruisers’ breakfast,” Barry said to me. We’d heard about it years ago through the Seven Seas Cruising Association.
“What do you mean, find out? Can’t we just go?” I asked.
He looked puzzled. “We’d have to find out when and where it is.”
“There’s a sign in the … uh … women’s bathroom…” Evidently, there was not a corresponding sign in the men’s room.

The sign advertised a weekly breakfast for cruisers and CLODs: Cruisers Living on Dirt. In other words, people who have “swallowed the anchor” here in Vero.
I told my Dad about the cute acronym. “I guess that makes you a PLOD: Parent Living on Dirt.” I suggested that he should join us for the boaters’ Happy Hour, and we would introduce him that way.
The next day, an email came from Dad, asking if he could “observe the SLOBs and PLODs thursday at the happily happy hour?”

SLOBs: I guess I asked for that.