Oh no. Don’t mix Interesting Literature’s Lives of Victorian Writers Told in Limericks with commuting; before you know it, you’ll be thinking in limericks yourself. Here are my attempts.
James McNeill Whistler
Butterflies aren’t ‘sposed to sting
But tears Jimmy Whistler did wring
From his friends, don’t you see
He’d make enemies
His praises you had to sing
There once was a writer called Wilde
Lord Alfred a thorn in his side
Homophobes cast him down
But Oscar took the crown
For his words live on with renown
There once was a writer called Bram
Devoted to Irving, that ham
To Whitman he wrote
Confessing his hopes
Count Dracula lives and is damned!
There once was a critic called Ruskin
Who made Jimmy Whistler go buskin’
“Hand on my heart,
this is not Art.
Nocturnes can go in the dustbin.”
© JD Ellevsen 2015