Correctly or not, Sol Don Dunce 
Said never a limerick——not once——
   Had ever been written
   Worth half a dead kitten,
And all in the species were runts.  




That Rip Van Winkle woke and went 
   Back home is popularly known,
But how so died the idle gent
   Is curiously left alone.

I'll tell you this: To take a nap
   Into the hills he took a walk.
He ne'er walk'd back and ne'er did hap
   With any kin again to talk.

Within the hills his corpse was found,
   The elder's body lately dead,
Lying upon the dewy ground,
   A pumpkin where'd have been his head.


Out of Tune

The old dilapidated house
   That's always in the rain
Forgotten is by all the world,
   Covered with weeds its lane.

Yet, often from the house is heard
   By all but human ears
A brittle spinet sounding airs
   That seem to drip with tears;

A brittle spinet sounding airs
   In distant minor keys,
Composed of sorrows out of tune.
   Enormous wheels of cheese.


A Runcible Round

The murderous Kankers went off in a Sieve
   To cross the Bloody Sea;   
And all of their friends cried, "Happy dead ends!"
   Maliciously nice as could be,
   Their mouths full of moldy Brie.  

The night was bright with yellow light;
   A lightning storm arose.
The Kankers flew a metal kite
   That looked like a boogery nose.
The Bloody Sea delighted to bite
   A rain of torrible crows.

The Sieve was downed; the Kankers were drowned;
   Their bodies washed ashore
   Where they had sailed for.
Their smiling faces looked up from the ground 
   On the hills of the Chankly Bore,
   And sang this runcible round:——

"A bat and a rat and a cat
Convened for a quatical chat:
  They plotted a killing——
  A murder most chilling——
Of bumps in the night that go SPLAT!"


Stone Jack

The sculptor-witch crafted with skill
   His model's eviler twin:
A stony Jack O'Lantern, ill
   And twisted-sick with sin.

He captured well the vivid eyes 
   That smile and look things dead,
The nose-hole where aroma dies,
   The mouth on curses fed.

Pleased with himself, pleased with his art,
   And, nothing left to do,
He gives it life in Satan's heart
   By yelling at it, "BOO!"


A Fantasia by Peter Philips

Peter Philips, speaking an antique dialect of music
In the voice of a needly harpsichord,
And in possession of another musician’s mind and fingers,
Guides me, in a voice-guided visualization,
Through a multi-level maze-garden of sound
Wherein grows nothing which is not splendid:
Thusly I receive a tour of Christian Heaven.