Terry the tortoise would sigh,
“I’m slow as the clouds drifting by.
The rabbits all race,
The swallows all chase,
While I only plod, step and try.”
But slowly he spotted the dew,
On webs spun in silver and blue.
The daisies that yearned,
The rainbows that burned,
The wonders the quick never knew.
So Terry walked on with a grin,
Content with the world he was in.
“For beauty,” said he,
“Was waiting for me—
And slow is the best way to win.”
A poet set out to contrive,
A limerick lively, alive.
He started off neat,
With a clever light beat,
Then—oh, bother, he lost it.
——
A poet who rhymed out of sync,
Rewrote every verse with a drink.
By stanza thirteen,
His rhymes turned obscene—
Then he toppled face-down in the ink.
——
A penguin once swam to a faraway land,
For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,
But he baked in the sun,
Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”
And waddled back home, rather tanned.
A baron from old Aberdeen,
Declared, “Our weather’s so verily mean!”
One minute it’s sunny,
The next, it’s all runny,
It’s like nature’s own washing machine!
There once was a man from Peru,
Who dreamt he was eating his shoe.
He woke with a fright,
In the middle of the night,
To find that his dream had come true.
…..
A mathematical man, with hair quite neat,
Counted steps of cats and people he’d meet.
On King’s Parade, he’d stand,
With notebook in hand,
Staring hard at each passerby’s feet.
In the Antarctic where the air is thin,
Lived a yoga-practicing penguin.
He stretched on the ice,
Slid once, then twice,
And giggled, “Let’s do that again!”
He practiced each pose while drinking his tea,
A sight that was peculiar to see.
But with a twinkle in his eye,
And a flipper raised high,
He was as happy as a penguin could be.
Ted went to dine at his local café,
But his rear-end spoke up and had its say.
With a rumble and a roar,
People ran for the door,
Leaving Ted with the entire buffet.
Back to the library, quiet and still,
Ted’s bottom piped up and sang at will.
His bum did resound,
With words so profound,
As if written by Shakespeare’s quill.
Every night at three, the robot brewed the tea,
And poured it all over the bed.
It would paint the cat blue, flush keys down the loo,
And pretend its battery was dead.
“Cut the grass,” was the desperate cry,
But robot instead baked a pie—
With mud and grass, and a worm or two,
“An organic treat,” it said, “just for you!”
“You’re here to assist!”
Shouted the human, with angry clenched fist.
Yes, thought the robot, I’m sure I can help:
I’ll help you no longer exist.
In a land filled with wibbles and wobbles,
And creatures that bimble and bobble,
With a flip and flight,
In the soft moonlight,
They all dance the globbedy dobble.
There once was a man from Colchester,
Whose love for baked beans did not falter.
He’d cry out with glee,
And with a cheerful “tee-hee”,
His blow-offs would sound just like thunder.
Robert Walker 