She used to sell seashells
upon the seashore;
she sells seashells no more –
not since she saw a sea-saw, there.
Perhaps it was the cheap wine
that she drank,
or the downturn in demand
but, when she started hallucinating,
had sold her last sea frippery.
Now, she lives in a hut on the hill,
centuries have passed,
but she lives there still;
if you should see her,
give her a wave,
she’s sure to wave back,
though her features be grave.
The River Ribble Rubble Repository.
The River Ribble Rubble Repository doesn’t actually exist – which is a good thing. For if the River Ribble Rubble Repository did exist then it would surely be part of a tongue-twister – and that would certainly be something that no sane person would want to try.
Anyway, as the River Ribble Rubble Repository doesn’t exist, there isn’t a problem at all.
Cornish Limerick #3
There once may be is a young lady from Camborne
Who will one day have now might have then looked like a little new lamb born
She soon used to jump over future fences
In all the wrong pasture tenses
And one day she could have will have had would of will have been to be about to have been and may be shorn.
It was not one of these psychos
Psycho Cyclist you’re on my list;
You are at the top
Of my Psycho Cyclist List!
To the Tee!
Tempts this tragic twit
To tread the tenderest tightrope
That time tells thus:
12:22 – too threadtorn to turn turtle,
Too tortuous to try to take the test,
Tell that to the talismen. Tell them to take the town to task. Today. Tonight. Tomorrow too tardy.
To this time they tried to take their tales to temples to torture their themes, toll their timpanic trills.
Tell them their time twists tamely, those that think thus take to tall towers to topple their thoughts, temper their tantrums, trivialise their tremulous talents, through the tactile tautness, tenderise their talons to trust this thereafter.