Limericks by Steve

Busy Being

In this din of come-froms and go-toings,
Is existence itself worth pursuing?
It’s really quite freeing,
To be called Human Beings,
Please note we’re not called Human Doings.

The Sound of One Freudian Slipping

This discussion of Oedipus and phalluses,
In the end only causes paralysis,
Psychoanalyzed bliss,
Is not worth a piss,
But, of course, that’s just my urinalysis.

Missing Some Links

The dispute the creationists begot,
Has been eased by a compromise (somewhat),
The issue’s resolved,
That some people evolved,
But some, evidently, have not.


God tortured Job on a bet,
Just to find out how bad it could get,
And his weird sense of humor,
Gives fuel to the rumor,
That He hasn’t learned anything yet.

God’s Good Lawyers

With Original Sin the Old Fox,
Put the Wheels of Justice on blocks
Because according to the Bible,
The Manufacturer’s not liable,
For defects right out of the box.

So Go Ahead Then

Although all my sins are subliminal,
I’ve done every sin in the hymnal,
If you put your mind to it,
You might as well do it,
For to think it is equally criminal

Is God a Fool;
Or (satanic version): Si, Dog Aloof;
Or: God: The Dyslexic Architect

Is the Guy that built our home a fool?
No, quite the opposite,
He’s aloof
Because any fool knows you don’t use,
A picture window for the roof.

Second Coming, Slowdown Sweetheart

If it’s for passionate union
With God that you thirst,
Remember the second coming’s
Always better than the first.

Hot/Warm Colors (a laundromat poem)

Life’s a procession of cycles,
That we barely perceive through the din,
I know that today I’m just soaking,
But I know that someday I will spin.

Statutory Immaculate Conception

God always comes out the winner,
Doing things that would make me a sinner,
He got Mary (they say),
In a Big Family Way,
Without even flowers or dinner.


We must compose poetry quickly!
Because it decomposes so fast.

Larval Stage

Where do socks disappear to?
They crawl slowly
Inch by inch
Into the closet
Where they metamorphose
Into coathangers.

For the Angry Young Poets

I like you angry better than weepy,
And I, too, admire your pee pee,
And it’s good that you’re free,
But why yell at me,
Just because I’m a little bit sleepy?

Beyond Anaconda

My Dear Brenda Moossy,
There is no excusey,
For attempts to sedusey,
Through Reptile Abusey,
And Big Snake Misusey.
You play fast and loosey,
With my heart, you Big Floosey.
You make me quite woozey.
What makes you so juicy?
My Dear Brenda Moossy.

© 1998 Steve Holst


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