Limericks: A Lost Art


: Poet, Erin Dickman, Throws her notebook in a bout of artistic frustration. Coming up with the right rhyme is hard work.

Samuel Perryman, Prose Editor

There once was a poet named Fred

Who thought, “All the great poets are dead.”

So with his own knife,

He took his own life,

And now all his poems are read.


John Smith was a man with a boat.

He sailed with his first mate: a goat.

“Take the helm,” John asked,

But he failed at the task,

And now John’s boat doesn’t float.


Two men walked into a bar.

Both tried to leave in a car.

But the men, both drunk,

Tried to drive from the trunk.

Admittedly, they didn’t get very far.



Susie had one mile to run.

Her marathon just wasn’t any fun.

But right before the finish,

Her hopes did diminish,

When the sign read: “ten miles ‘til done.”