A poet set out to contrive,
A limerick lively, alive.
He started off neat,
With a clever light beat,
Then—oh, bother, he lost it.
——
A poet who rhymed out of sync,
Rewrote every verse with a drink.
By stanza thirteen,
His rhymes turned obscene—
Then he toppled face-down in the ink.
——
A penguin once swam to a faraway land,
For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,
But he baked in the sun,
Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”
And waddled back home, rather tanned.
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