In the opinion of no less an authority than George Bernard Shaw, a Limerick is innately obscene. A Limerick that isn’t properly rude isn’t really a Limerick.
The limerick packs laughs anatomical
In space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
With that in mind TVFP has gathered together a few of our favourites for your enjoyment. Parental warning: you may want to ask the children to go and smoke their pot in the other room.
The limerick’s callous and crude
It’s morals distressingly lewd
It’s not worth the reading
By persons of breeding
It’s designed for us vulgar and rude
From what we can tell Limericks, with some notable exceptions, were written by the dispossessed. The writers were almost always men. Often as not the object of their deprecations were minorities, mostly women and homosexuals. Most of these limericks are anything but funny, but rather reflect times of poverty and in some cases genocide by starvation, a soaring infant mortality rate, class and gender conflict, war and political frustration.
Having said that we find it difficult to dismiss the Limerick on grounds of political and social correctness. The Limerick would only laugh at us and would write a scathing five liner about the size of our penis or would endeavor to insert some article of commodity fetishism in our anus. The Limerick by its nature is defiant of any attempt to cleanse its anarchic soul. In truth that is why at we at TVFP are so fond of it.
Some of these limericks have been adapted by TVFP to reflect modern concerns. The rest are what they are.
Some time back there was a bombshell
Light Rail Transit might start to do well
Now that could cost loads
To the selfish who build the roads
So they brought in an exhaust hole from hell
Have the treasures of our land in thrall
Any chance of survival at all
With a dope like Kent to trust
It looks like a bust
And the Harper we know is a know-it-all
The thing about ‘Back to Basics’
And similar high moral tricks
Is they’re bound to backfire
When your Conservative choir
Have all got their brains in their dicks
A mathematician named Hall
Has a hexahedronical ball
And the cube of its weight
Times his pecker plus eight
Is his cell number – give him a call
There once was a young lady with such graces
That her curves cried out for embraces
You look, said McGee
Like a million to me
Invested in all the right places
An astronomer, pious but odd
To be honest a dirty old sod
Who’d searched for a sign
Of the presence divine
Cried, I’ve just found Uranus, dear God
Her husband is in the Hussars
A colonel all covered in scars
But it isn’t his weals
For which nightly she feels
But the privates he lost in the wars
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