Lymerick

In heaven we’re cured of our vices.
In hell nothing’s cured but the prices
Are outrageous and may
Inflate any day
And good coffee’s as dear as fresh ice is.

In Heaven the coffee's sublime
And they serve it with cream all the time.
But down in the fire
They use a supplier:
The same as United Airlines'.

Oh, why can't two words simply rhyme
Exactly? Would it be a crime
If verbiage bent
To poetic intent
At the end of each metrical lime?

Those allowing a rhyme that is slant
Just encourage those poets who can’t
Figure out how to rhyme
Any lemon or lime.
Any nose knows a rose is a plant.

A limerick's a rhythm precise;
It requires a roll of the dice.
Never jump for a fast rhyme
For there on the last line
You still have to rhyme with--oh Chrsit!

There was a big fuss called Convention
That stirred up internal dissension;
We're stronger together
Sang birds of a feather,
And other poetic invention.

There’s nothing more enjoyable than a political convention to give one that rush of meaningfulness

Those conventions I’m planning to miss
Where the bull looks for someone to kiss.
There are words and replies
Wound-up cheering and cries
Then the bull hits the fan spraying bliss.

Too speedily comes the election,
The people's own sovereign selection.
Will it be the old lass
With the pantsuited *ss
Or her rival, the orange erection?

Useless victories predict a loss.
Unexpectedly give them a toss.
When you push on some fat
It reacts much like that
And I wonder who’s really the boss?

There once was a confab in Philly
Which contrasted Cleveland's silly
Mr. Kahn gets credit
The Dem's didn't edit
At the end of the day I'm for Hilly

The monster was happy he had
A damsel but she wasn’t glad.
She had a pet dragon
She rode as a wagon
Whom her monster shot down being bad.

There once was a shy necromancer
Who never made much of a dancer;
He tangoed a specter,
Then bashfully pecked her:
She vanished in flame for an answer.

Dancing requires some skill
To make gravity play with you, still
If you fall in her lap
She might give you a slap,
Or worse, let you do what you will.

There once was a limerick I made:
Its second line shocked an old maid;
Its third line was rude
(As it ended in "nude"),
But its fourth could have got a nun laid.

There once was a limerick I wrote
Describing a randy old goat.
It tended to corny
With wordplay on horny,
And could rhyme only with petticoat.