(North) County Limericks

the area code's greatest 5-liners

There once were these things called gnus
I’ve never quite seen one, have you?
They had four legs like a horse
But were more stumpy and coarse
And rendered a much weaker glue


Some people say they don't like wearing masks
It fogs up their specs, it gives them a rash
But boy let me say
In the bathroom today
It sure was real nice to smell less of your . . .


There once was a thing called H.R.
That 'splained to us what the rules are
They kept lots of brackets
And printable packets
And stopped any lawsuit from getting too far


A pub-lishing job sure never bores
Our meetings are play, our tasks are not chores
We give a best-in-class ride
To both agent and scribe
And nobody EVER describes us as whores


There once was a fellow named Dohle
whose hunger for gain was unholy
From behind big white teeth
he the judge did beseech
that he'd never exert monop-sony


We once had a boss-man named Dietsch
who fussed over all in his reach
If you asked him for space
he’d screw up his face
and point out that you were his bietsch


There was a young man from Regina
who lived at no risk of angina
He kept himself fit
by jogging a bit
and refraining from eating at diners


There was a young man named Blake
whose liaisons would never quite take
For though he was cute
and had plenty of loot
his nethers, they smelt of boiled hake


There once was a man named Arnaud
who exclusively drank Veuve Clicquot
He wore blue-rimmed glasses
looked down on the masses
and, when asked to pitch in, he said, “Non!”


There once was this thing called Facebook
that was run by a conscienceless schnook
He was a strange sort of bird
who acted the nerd
but at heart was a self-hating crook


The unfettered power of your massive brain
could turn the moon’s deserts to tillable plains
It could master cold fusion
put an end to pollution
yet you’re only an Einstein at interpersonal pain


There once was a fellow named Rick
who had mastered an odd sort of trick
whenever he coughed
his pants would fall off
And everyone would see his big giant briefs


There once was a poet named Strand
whose lines were stentorially grand
he wrote of shadows and self
and you’d find his work on our shelf
but Grisham and King, we find, are more in demand


There once was this thing called a door
that swung between ceiling and floor
it let you talk on the phone
let you laugh, fart, or groan
but Cost Savings have made it no more