Tag Archives: kevin morris author

A Gentleman Who Liked To Shoot Grouse

A gentleman who liked to shoot grouse
Was delighted by a large flying mouse.
He said to his cat,
“I’ll eat my old hat.
Along with those grouse and that mouse!”.

There Is A Young Lady With A Lute

There is a young lady with a lute
Who works in a house of ill repute.
A vicar named Ted
Oft attends her sick bed –
He’s known for his love of the lute.

My Phantom Lover

I met a young lady named Glover
Who is known as the phantom lover.
She stole my heart
And all my art.
And got shot by my dear mother!

Why Do I Rush To Pass

Why do I rush to pass
Those who walk the churchyard path?
I reach my home
And leave behind the path
Along which all must pass,
To a place where bones
Find their final home,
Under a cold stone.

There Once Was a Man Named Ray

There once was a man named Ray
Who said, “in the month of May
It is my sole goal
To dance around the Maypole.
But my girl she refuses to play!”

Rose for Whom Anything Goes

When a young lady named Rose
Said, “as for me, anything goes!”.
I said, “that’s great!”,
Then, me and Kate
Tweaked that big nose of Rose!

There Was a Young Lady Named Fay

There was a young lady named Fay,
Who they say came from the USA.
She was a Confederate bride
But history’s great rolling tide
Has swept Fay and the Confederacy away.

(I am currently reading Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. For anyone who is unaware of the plot of the novel, it deals with the American Civil War and its impact on the Confederate states of America, both during and after the war. Hence I thought it would be interesting to compose a limerick about those times).

There Once Was a Poor Rhymer Named Gus

There once was a poor rhymer named Gus
Who, on becoming overwhelmed with wickedness and lust,
Entered a house of ill repute
Where he played upon his flute.
As the girls sang, “poetry, ‘tis but dust!”.

Volumes Fill My Room

Volumes fill my room.
A girl’s sweet perfume
May make me smile
For a little while.

Poetry survives, our brief lives.
Whilst the linger of fingers
From the present time,
Are caught in rhyme

I Cut Bread

I cut bread
And momentarily forget.
Then, a smile, tinged with regret.
You are dead.
There will be
No Labrador nose, to deprive me
Of my tea.