h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

You'll live as long as you are meant to,
Your genes the instructions they sent you.
Be prudent or daring,
Coldhearted or caring,
But return all the cash the mob lent you!

[Sleeping with the fishies is a sure recipe for an early death. ]

Sixty-five went by - several years
There were triumphs, and hopes turned to tears:
If I have a regret,
It's for those I've not met,
'cause I'm still twenty-one twixt the ears.

My birth was in one nine four eight.
Of that year, I've naught to relate.
They tell me I cried,
'Cause my ears hurt inside.
They don't any more. That's just fate.

For me, '54 was the year
The fashion was for going nuclear
Sellafield opened up,
Launched: one atomic sub
Not a year to be proud of I fear

In the fifties the fallout we feared,
And millions of shelters appeared.
We read "On the Beach."
Peace seemed out of reach
The Russians and Chinese we jeered.

My dentures have minds of their own.
Corn on the cob makes them groan.
An apple a day,
They'd soon run away.
I won't even try mutton bone.

The gardening club is so torpid,
They can't even grow a small orchid.
At roses they yawn.
Dandelions on their lawn.
Their meetings are usually aborted.

[alternate last kline for the preceding limerick:

The bulbs that they plant are imported.]

Do you have any alternatives for the first four lines, paulh?

This limerick thread is so torpid,
They can't find a good rhyme for "orchid."
They fret about trifles,
Then go for their rifles,
Or so I have heard it reported.

My sincere apologies paulh, I should have read your PS first. Had I realised that you hailed from Noo Joizy I wouldn't have raised the matter.

New Jersey's been feeling the power
Of Nature, where weather turned sour.
One side of a nation
Faced sheer devastation
While here we complain of a shower.

New Jersey is far from my home,
As far as Seattle from Nome,
But Hurricane Sandy
Hit all that was handy,
And covered the wreckage in foam.

The marshes shed many a tear.
"Those youngsters come here to drink beer.
Their beer cans they leave.
Such waste makes us grieve.
The quicksand makes them disappear."

I need prunes, for a reason most crude,
Either raw, or in tins, or just stewed.
When I missed for a week,
Then the outlook was bleak.
And for sure, constipation ensued.

Such a sweet little Limerick ye gave
Of an ailment just this side of grave
Brings visions to mind
Of scenes, of a kind
That tax one's resolve to behave

(Sol just posted this elsewhere - it might help)
http://youtu.be/ic3g8Xnf7LI

If prunes you have not, then some bran
Will help when you go to the can.
In muffins it's great,
So heap up your plate,
And factor the loo in your plan.

Interesting that we are inspired
By this topic, rude, crude and so mired
In allusions of pieces
Of giant, stuck feces
Shall we consider this topic retired?

The flowers that grow in the Spring
Can make flights of fancy take wing.
A mere daisy's petal
Puts you in fine fettle,
While roses are sings of loving.