limericks for no reason

a tuba who learned how to sneeze went out to perform for the trees. the trees, somewhat damp, applauded the cramp, and sent it a card with two bees.

a radish with strong, stated views made it on the evening news. “i am spicy,” it said, “and i come in bright red. i decline to be seen as a ruse.”

a sock had a quiet, firm plan to escape the machine when it ran. at the peak of the spin it slipped out of the din and is now an accomplished young man.

a fern, in a pot, by the door, was certain of one thing, no more: that the window was rude, and that ferns, as a brood, had been saying this since ’04.

a snail with ambition, you see, set out on a journey at three. by six it had moved a small part of the groove and declared this a personal spree.

a teapot, with poise at high tea, was asked what its function might be. “i transmute,” it replied, “what the kettle has cried, into something more dignified — see?”

a goose with strong feelings indoors held forth on the matter of doors. “the swing is too wide, the latch is no guide, and the hinges have lost all their wars.”

a kettle, post-whistle, post-pour, stood empty and steaming no more. “my purpose,” it sighed, “has been fully supplied. i shall now be a thing on the floor.”

a fog with a tendency to creep arrived, rather pleased with the leap. it wandered the lawn, declined to be gone, and is now in the basement asleep.

a tuesday, considered alone, took offense at its plainness of tone. “the weekend is sung, the monday is wrung, and i sit between, on the phone.”