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 The "Carbuncular Cascade" |
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| A song about BLUE Christmas decomposed into a profusion of fubar limericks |
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I'll have a Blue Carbuncle without goose,
Until I start thinking about moose.
With the rhymes getting worse,
I'm stopping this verse
And planning my menu, no doubt goose.
I'll keep my bad poetics, with verse, loose.
Until my dried-up spark plugs create juice.
So we go from bad to verse.
And wait for a lift of this curse.
With rhymes so bad; we've even stuck in "moose."
Winter, with Welcome Holmes and carbuncle,
And you can choose a goose or moose....
Eat it, with mother, dad, or great uncle.
This topic's really getting loose....
But now our Blue Carbuncle has been cropped.
And all the bad rhyming has been stopped.
But our mem'ries of this stunt,
Keeps fresh our "carbon" hunt
For any surprises in goose crops.
Those who think that the verse on the stone
Is all finished, may think that alone.
Carbuncle, goose, hat:
There's always something that
Can be worried, like a dog at a bone.
There's still that goose, located at Goodge Street,
Where, unaware, one family sits down to eat.
Though the feast is a substitute
For a goose that was filled with loot,
The family has no complaints with the treat.
Not only is there a Goodge Street,
It was there that a friend I did meet,
Though the area's not bad,
I'd be very sad,
From the BM to walk it -- no treat!
Suddenly, this changed, so we'll make do;
since a limerick this quickly turned into.
We've Goodged and we've goosed;
All our hens home to roost.
Since some different feet fills both our shoes.
This game goes from verse to verse worse.
Do I hear from our readers a curse?
We could make this thing past:
I'll let you be the last
'Less I'm wrong you were also the first.
But how could you not love our poems?
This extra treat, welcoming Holmes.
Jump in any time,
With your own special rhyme.
And laugh 'til your mouth starts to foam.
Since I strive to employ le mot juste
When I write, a small doubt has been loosed:
Between Scotch firs and spruces,
'Tween mooses and gooses,
What's the difference?
I've never been moosed.
So, the object found inside that goose;
Was it blue, red, green, aqua or puce?
Sherlockians hiss
Over questions like this:
Was Watson's name Hamish or Bruce?
So are we done with all things goose?
It feels like our necks in a noose.
Our rhyming's bereft.
There's nothing left.
Now would you pass the couscous?
Authors: Esmerelda, JoeG
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