Golden Booty Duty: The End
Aren’t we all a little tired of limericks
“I’m just a little tired of this,” I admit to Cat aka Cat’o’Cheshire aka Dave Logan aka The Detective. “We’ve followed so many wanna-be clues. Are we ever going to figure out what happened?”
For three months we have spent too many late nights eating ham and cheese pizzas and following dead-end leads. My waistline and my sanity need a solution. Plus, as brilliant as limericks are, I’m about ready to transtemporal travel back to 1811 and interrupt the coitus that created Edward Lear — supposedly the first dude to popularize this form of poetry. I know that between bouts of sax-tooting, Elise Paxson ☕️has been configuring some sort of time travel tool, so it might even be a possibility.
I’m starting to wholeheartedly agree with Mary DeVries when she waved the Swiss flag and declared:
A poet I am not said she
Nor likely so ever to be
I think not in rhyme
I haven’t the time
This isn’t my genre you see
After discovering one of The Ice Berg Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg)’s limericks inked behind the tango trophies we started questioning the duel, supposed double death, and life in general.
It began as some kind of war
Because I am some kind of bore
Then Jupiter said
Let’s make love instead
An offer that some may explore
Of course, as soon as Cat saw this poem, he elbowed me in the ribs and exclaimed, “See, we’re supposed to make love!” Groan. Though the more time I spent observing him muscling open the door for me, repeating pleases and thank yous, and quoting hockey stats and musical lines like “We can have high times if you’ll abide”, I realized the possibility wasn’t completely as far out of this world as Pluto’s 5 moons. But, back to solutions.
“Well,” he states, his eyes glittering as brightly as the six pounds of sequins on my grade 8 graduation purse. He sips noisily from some sort of Trenta-sized raspberryish Starbucks goo. “I might have discovered what happened.”
