For some reason I wrote a bunch of dirty poetry yesterday. And this morning. *cough*
doctroid posted this dirty limerick to alt.religion.kibology:
There once was a fellow named Clyde
Who fell down a privy and died
Along came his brother
Who fell down the other
And now they're interred side by side.
and Kibo posted a challenge to turn it into a Shakespearian sonnet. I wrote something that was four lines short of a sonnet, doctroid called me on it, and I wrote this expanded version, which I think is superior anyway, despite containing what might be considered 'fat humor', which I don't really approve of:
Sir Clyde upon a privy seat once sat,
And in this jakes he died, heaven forfend.
The seat was weak and old, and Clyde was fat,
And so the seat collapsed, sealing his end.
His brother also found himself caught short
And sought relief upon the john next door.
Alas, the seat was weak, the brother port-
ly: also went this brother through the floor.
And so these brothers met their awful fate;
To plummet to the muck without a word.
And brother now with brother, in this state,
quite side by side can now be found interred.
Now, friends, to meet our goals we must make haste,
lest like these brothers' lives, ours go to waste.
Next, plorkwort challenged people to write dirty limericks about Daleks. I came up with three:
Once the Daleks had killed Doctor Who,
A red Dalek declaimed to a blue,
"WE! HAVE! OUR! VIC! TO! RY!
SO! NOW! WHAT! SAY! THAT! WE!
CELEBRATE! WITH! A! GOOD! SONIC! SCREW?!"
The shell of a Dalek's first grade.
It'll ward off gunshots or grenades.
But it's counterproductive
in milieus more seductive;
Armored Daleks can never get laid.
Daleks don't celebrate Mother's Day.
Reproduction by sex ain't their way.
When one's told by some schmuck
that itself it should fuck
Daleks always respond "I! O! BEY!"
(A couple of the poems above differ slightly from the versions I posted to a.r.k.)