BEDDING IN READING
There was a young couple from Reading
Who went to purchase some bedding.
They tried out some beds
And, as newly weds …
You can guess where this Limerick’s heading
28th May 2019
Bawdy Limerick contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
tender bedding plants
roots contained in starter trays....
soil awaits spring's warmth
Brownness matches the little accents,
So I see, as covers are spread.
Hey, I've got me a plan to survive World War Three
And it doesn't involve living deep in the sea
With a mermaid named Maddy from that '80s movie
Or a grey-skinned E.T. hoping to crossbreed with me.
There's a bunch of big blokes known as Bigfoot to some
And they live in the woods where most humans won't come
Though they've entered our culture as the years have gone by
They are still seen as legends and old myths, that's no lie.
See, in spite of their fur and their size they're quite smart
For their fondest desire is to live well apart
From us primates who ravage the Earth without pause
Like the virus that spreads through its host - just because.
Called by Yeti and Sasquatch and still other things
They refer to themselves as "Jemah" and are beings
Who, unlike the poor bipeds that include me and you,
Can converse without speech, like our pets often do.
Though the tallest are known to have grown to nine feet
And they stink like old garbage, not to mention dead meat
I shall fashion my life on this heavenly lathe;
I'll make Sweet Thing my wife, and I won't have to bathe.
Wailing winds, crying in the empty night;
tripping leaves rattle across, walls and roads;
click-clacking out a lullaby.
Soon, squirrels will be rocked into a
hibernating dreamtime;
their nests swaying in high treetops.
As fall unmasks winter,
Mother Earth beds down her creatures;
tucking them in for
the approaching nights.
Wrapped in her white blanket,
she takes her, long-deserved rest.
Wailing winds, crying in the empty night;
tripping leaves rattle across, walls and roads;
click-clacking out a lullaby.
Soon, squirrels will be rocked into a
hibernating dreamtime;
their nests swaying in high treetops.
As fall unmasks winter,
Mother Earth beds down her creatures;
tucking them in for
the approaching nights.
Wrapped in her white blanket,
she takes her, long-deserved rest.
Suns. Most often moons.
Slithering like a plague
From a craving nowhere
To a playful peephole
Which the poet himself can’t find.
Now it’s there—
Stains!
Now, what?
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