A Series of Limericks
Melissa Noonan // September 29, 2011
There once was a candle,
Whose owner was named Randle.
He slid down the street
On his wax covered feet,
As he listened to music by Handel.
Oh feather duster in my closet,
How I ponder the parts you composite.
Dust devised of my old dead skin?
Or maybe glass from that bottle of gin.
Here, in the trash I will deposit.
You sit there in your frozen tomb
Mocking me with most certain doom.
Full of evils I love so much,
My tongue longing for that icy touch.
I have no choice but to consume.
