Author: Stephen Bobbett

I don’t have a limerick today
Had I written one, what would it say?
Would I even have time
To find some good rhymes?
And what weirdo writes poems, anyway?

An aged and flourishing tree
Keeps the sun from the sapling beneath
As its golden leaves dither
The younger tree withers
For a future that neither will see

These obscene, exhibitionist trees
With their pollen and seasonal sleaze
You might think I’m a prude
But it’s quite blooming rude
How their lovemaking’s making me sneeze