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

["sings" should have been "signs"]

The roses that bloom in the spring
Have nothing to do with the thing
That's obsessing our mind,
Building up from behind--
And to cling it's inclined, when you fling.

When it's tea time in old Boston town,
We call for our old, trusted clown .
He brings in a tray
With cheese and pate,
And dares us to keep it all down.

She left all her Christmas lights on
From sunset till long after dawn.
When they were turned off,
She developed a cough,
And all she could do then was yawn

We are taught to respect and admire
Good King Wenceslas, who with his squire
Gave an old man a feast--
They provided a beast
Which they cooked on a huge open fire

The writers of virus are dumb,
Think they're clever, but really they're scum.
Should be cut into slivers,
And thrown into rivers.
Bit severe? Well maybe. Ho-hum!

I'm currently running the full and fully updated version of Norton 360, but I still managed to get one, sneaked in with a chain letter e-mail from a family member.

Anyone who gets some kind of pleasure out of wrecking systems is only fit for fish food.

[I've gathered my best limericks for the year. The link is:
http://h2g2.com/dna/h2g2/alabaster/Edit ]

That link doesn't work, so here's another try:


http://h2g2.com/dna/h2g2/alabaster/A87779452?s_fromedit=1

Just put the A-number, Paul

A87779452

And - well done!

Erm. Limericks is spelt with an "m" - or is that intentional?

We ought to publish a book of this thread.


When one takes time to go back and look
This thread is as long as a book
Each rhyme has appeal
Sad, funny or surreal
And to think of all the effort it took!

Oh, Trillian's Child, I say, steady!
You'll have us puffed-up and swelled-heady!
A book made of these
Is a pure waste of trees;
There are too many limericks already.

Too many? Not nearly enough!
A solace when life gets too tough.
A lim'rick can ease
Almost any disease,
And can be made up off the cuff.

I had hoped ere I'm too old
There'd be relief for the common cold.
If limericks can ease
This stubborn disease,
Then millions of books will be sold

To ease, not the same as to cure.
A state of mind only, I'm sure.
Expertise do I lack,
But I am not a quack.
No evil intentions. I'm pure!

A poet, his glimpse of perfection
Submitted to public inspection,
Will take with good grace
What Fate flings in his face
With a single exception: correction.

This time of the year is quite cold.
When going outside, I'm not bold.
Two hats do I wear.
I layer with care.
I look like a penguin, I'm told.

I once met a man who builds drums.
I can't do that. I'd be all thumbs!
You'd have to be fleet
To drum up a beat.
I'll try that, and then see what comes

A cornet I'd play in a jam,
A flute when I feel like a lamb.
A well-tuned piano
I'd play for Cyrano,
Then dine on the best cornet ham

Lady Judith Amelia Snodgrass,
Is partial to Whisky, the odd glass.
Never offer a double,
It's treble or trouble.
She's one of the drunken old sod class.

A "lady" who can't hold her booze
Has far less to gain than to lose,
So pour some champagne.
She shouldn't complaint.
She'll drink from her ten-gallon shoes.

I've never had haggis at all.
I guess that I'm not in its thrall.
Sheep's stomachs? Can't find.
I've got no way to grind.
Haggis has too much cholesterol.