Old peddler wanted a new home design.
He hired Mable, a decorator, and all was fine.
Until she decided to redecorate him too.
I don’t want to change he said, I am ninety-two.
Mable was forceful, she did not hear the word no.
She took lots of his money, and created some woe.
He sits outside his house now, for it reminds him of her.
A bossy overbearing woman, who felt like a bur.
Leland was not old
However, he was set in his ways
Cantankerous and vinegarish
Most nights and most days
Let’s set him up with Mable, I suggested.
She was another human that I detested.
There was a young lady called Mable
who was feeling rather unstable.
When her hormones go bonkers,
she will be eating conkers
from her little camp under the table
She wore her art in socks and mittens at first
But then she began designing her t-shirts, and even worse…
She decorated her lampshades, or maybe, even better
No one’s house looked like hers, Mable P.T. Fetter
She is odd some said, but they were not friends of mine.
I thought her colorful things were mighty and fine.
Spent time with her, listening to stories that were colorful too.
She was not the norm, so now, wouldn’t you?
Steven heard his hot neighbor’s unstable,
but he said, “Come for lunch today, Mable.”
Sexy words from her mouth
caused a stirring down south.
They enjoyed more than lunch on the table.
February 5, 2020
Contest: Your Best New Limerick
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
There was once a lady called Mable
Whose knickers were up to her navel
Her cupboards were bare
There was no underwear
So she nicked them from where she was able
There's a fifty stone stripper called Mabel
Loves to practise her moves on her table
She heard a loud crack
Fell off broke her back
Now she cannot get up she's not able.
Written on 16th July 2018
For limerick contest sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
My beer-swilling auntie called Mabel
Could drink most blokes under the table
She sups pint after pint
Almost every night
No wonder her legs are unstable!
06~07~17
I know a country gal named Mable
She is dating her neighbour Gable
They want to go to a show
That is in a very small town
All the traffic was very slow
The wind was blowing snow
They really did not know
If they were unable
To get to the show
The drive to the town was slow
Their was once en olde boozer named Mable,
Who inn her dotage was sow unstable.
She was thee village buffoon,
Swilling at ev'ry saloon.
Mable cud drink ewe under thee table!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Writes Reserved
Knock knock,
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Aunty Mable.”
Quick, let’s hide beneath the table.
I hate it when she comes round here,
She leaves me feeling rather *****.
Her top lip is adorned with bristle,
And when she speaks her false teeth whistle.
She never plucks that hair that grows
From the wart upon her nose.
I can’t stand that cat of hers,
It’s grumpy, mean and seldom purrs.
I’m not sure why she brings that broom.
She’s never swept a single room.
When she leaves our neighbour stares
At the big black pointy hat she wears.
Sara Mable
told a fable
said she was
a natural blonde
I'll meet you in the backyard
with chinaberries and tea
with cut-offs on and marigolds
and photographs to be
We'll dig a trench and tunnel
We'll run through sprinklers too
We'll tangerine the afternoon
until the sky is blue
The world will whirl around us
the summer bolting by
We'll lay on woolen blankets
and blow kisses at the sky
We'll plant another fig tree
and push around our thoughts
'till they all line up in obedience
and produce the goods they've brought
If you will speak a story
then I will hum a song
and maybe the birds on the back phone line
will fly on down and sing along
If we can muse the day light
to bite a chunk off the moon
then maybe the day will unravel away
on this perfect afternoon...