Students in my 5th period class recently had a little extra time on their hands, so naturally, we had a limerick competition. They were told specifically that the best would be particularly insulting.

The following is the best one that did not contain profanity:

My teacher is such a poser.
Really, nobody knows her.
With glasses and a book,
Like a witch with a hook,
I don’t know why the principal chose her.

-Dominik Reyes

Not awful, but if you think you can do better, throw it down in the comments below. Look here for a handy reference on how a limerick is made.

And in closing:

Your limericks will likely be bad
You’re the dullest students I’ve had.
I hope you don’t mind
That I’ve set it to rhyme,
But your writing skills are quite sad.

Are you going to let me talk to you like that? Prove me wrong below.

Blackening blisters from your burning Love
Envelope my body as a warm glove,
While I was left lying in life’s situations,
While I was blinded by the world’s darkness,
Hid by deliberate fences.

While my mind was fogged by fraudulent illumination,
While life held no value because of lack of inspiration,
You picked up the pieces, brightened the skies,
Gave me a reason to live, as you cleared all their lies.

As the bloody carcass of my past trembled, you secured me in your arms,
As you whispered sweetly that you meant no harm.
As I cried in disbelief you took my shaking hand.
You held me close to your heart and said “You have a friend.”

-C+C=Awesome

Communism is so F.U.N. (Financially Unifying Notion)!
I love the Rebel’s Chants
Want to share the wealth with everyone!
Equal Distribution of Wealth
No has more than anybody else!
I don’t need no special stores or Mercedes cars
All I want is the love of the USSR!

-Andrew and Albert Lopez

I’m afraid to look into your eyes
Afraid that I’ll get lost in them.
I’m afraid to hold your hand
Afraid that I can’t let go.

I’m afraid to hug you,
Afraid that I can’t unwrap my arms.
I’m afraid to listen to you speak,
Afraid your words will live inside me.

I’m afraid to look at your face,
Afraid that it will hurt too much.
I’m afraid to feel your heartbeat,
Afraid that it will take over mine.

I’m afraid to dial your number,
Afraid of not knowing what to say.
I’m afraid to stand beside you,
Afraid of not knowing what to do.

I’m afraid to think of certain dates,
Afraid of recalling special moments.
I’m afraid to read poems I have written,
Afraid that I’ll gain more feelings for you.

I’m afraid to think about our past,
Afraid that I’ll be living in memories.
I’m afraid to compare myself to other men,
Afraid that I will lose.

I’m afraid to cry
Afraid of not being able to stop.
I’m afraid to fantasize,
Afraid that it will become reality.

I’m afraid of trying to be strong,
Afraid that I’ll suddenly break down.
I’m afraid to tell another person I love them,
Afraid that it’ll be another failure in love.

I’m afraid to tell you how I feel,
Afraid that you’ll look at me as foolish.
I’m afraid to ask for another chance,
Afraid that you will reject me.

I’m afraid to imagine life without you,
Afraid that I can’t go on.
But, no matter how afraid I am,
I’m afraid of losing you.

-Gary Hunt

Thrift Heaven smelled of the closets left behind
By dead grandmothers,
And the stale vault
Of a cheese-stained microwave oven.

The bubbling whitewashed cinderblock walls baked you,
And the August swelter slid the plastic frames of your glasses
Down the bridge of your nose.
Your forearm down was tacky moist.

“But T-shirts are two for five dollars,”
Mother said, “And school starts Monday.”

You pried slices of shirts apart at the great round rack.
All faded, cracked corporate logos,
And greasy spots.

But then blue — aqua sweet cool bedsheet blue;
Like blueberry snowcone drips cascading down knuckles.

The shirt:
Soft knit that hung like a shirt, not a cardboard carapace.
No holes. No yellow pit stains. A find. A treasure.

Queer thing, the image on the left breast.
A cartoon rainbow, only slightly faded, and a stick figure hung below
Like a parachutist, only barely cracked.

And the name printed across the back.
“Theodore” then S-J-E-A-U.
Pronounced, “Chew” you thought.

On Monday, the schoolhouse floors’ new wax glowed
Just like a TV screen, and the program was about school;
But above this glow, there were dead June beetles in the corners,
And the ghosts of angry young hieroglyphics on the walls
Where watered-down white paint just won’t cover black marker.

No one else at the schoolhouse knew Theodore Sjeau.
They knew the Dallas Cowboys.
They knew Polo and Puma.
They knew Nike.
You knew better.

On Tuesday, some noticed Theodore Sjeau.
On Wednesday, more noticed; on Thursday they noticed you.
“Freak,” they whispered. “Poor,” they muttered.

“Theodore Sjeau is a great man,”
You mumbled in self-defense.
“He says the golden days are coming.”

“Freak,” they whispered. “Poor,” they muttered.

Life . . . yeah it’s like this:

Like a child with no support,
Innocent boy in court,
And judge with no remorse,
Like that . . .

Like the suburbs,
Except the families live on curbs,
And the only paintings . . . have four letter words.
Yeah, like that . . .

Like little kids wielding knives,
Men who beat their wives,
Where 21 is considered full lives?
Yeah, it’s like that . . .

Like when monogamy turns to sodomy,
Turns to, “Daddy get off of me!”
Yeah it’s like that.
But the daughter is quite, shy, doesn’t tell anyone.
Just lives with the scars of what daddy done.
Yeah it’s like that.
Now the girl, 13, hears lies of a guy, 18, who said, “Baby, I’ll treat you like a queen.”
But instead he beats her,
Cheats her,
Mistreats her.
And his control traps her.
Yeah like that . . .
Until one night, she runs; tries to escape there.
And then goes to tell Mommy,
How Daddy raped her.
But she won’t hear it: kicks her daughter out
With a bruised body, broken spirit.
Yeah, life’s like that . . .

Like a boy that dreams to be a docta’
But has no money for Med School .
Like a phantom with no opera.
like that . . .
Then the boy walks from a book shop.
And gets hassled by a cop,
“puts your hands up! Stop!”
And the Boy reaches to his bag,
“officer, this is all I got . . .
And, “Boom!” he’s shot.
Yeah life’s like that . . .

Like a family with heroin tearing them apart.
A mother, an addict, and a son about to start . . .
Yeah like that . . .

Like a mommy with no money so her kids go hungry,
While a dead beat daddy is living happy . . .
Yeah like that . . .

Like teenagers with sick children
That have no money to heal them . . .
Yeah like that . . .

I wanna be somewhere, where the cops don’t follow your school route,
where the only gang are Girl Scouts.
And where they don’t turn the lights out . . .
Just because the bill is two days late.
Wouldn’t that be great?
Yeah . . . but life’s not like that . . .

-Brillaudia K. Amie

Begin

to put your lighters in the air and try to blaze the sky ‘cause the world is too cold, then your corpse turns cold when you die. Sooo cold tears froze when your mom cries. No emotion from the speakers so why does the song cry? Why do I tear from the eye? Shed tears through the speakers, band aid on the hood full of block bleeders. Nobody believes us, but we’re all Martians, don’t believe me so laugh Martin, but I know, I know we’re all Marvins. Since the 10,000 B.C. to the 300 Spartans. 300 Merlins granting three wishes to the King Arthurs. I’m the King Author, where is my Merlin? My three wishes, I want the bread, butter and the margarine. No Genies, no Aladdins. I’m a genius, so glad I am . . . an Einstein mixed with a little Aristotle sending messages like I’m La compagnie general aeropostale. But I’m not French. Where’s the French maid to clean my couch potato French fry? Can’t understand? Hmmm no hints, just try . . . to analyze the words from a wise man. Look up to the sky to see the star, it’s the Messiah, and this is my Jerusalem. We’ve been at war since Jerusalem. Art of war, who just drew them? The pictures are so vivid, how could he picture this. Kodak moments only last forever. Forever is never, because we do die. We do try to keep going, but we do die. Happily never after, because we do “the end” in the

end.

-Cruz Suarez

You can have anything you want in this world.
You can have it in a plane.
You can have it on a train.
You can have it with a fox, in a box, on top of a house,
With a mouse,
But it doesn’t matter, because we’re all going to die some day.

-Albert Lopez

Roses are red, violets are not,
Silence is golden, duct tape da-dada,
No, not that Muppet song that drives you insane.
Insane as in mad, not mad as in angry
And not mad as in MADD
For that mad is a fad
Whose claims sound the same
La~la la~la.
About little fools, who fall from their stools,
When inebriated what do they gain?
A scratch, a broken limb, a casket with wood rot?
Jessica Alba
A luscious figure who causes men…
Well I can’t say no more or I’ll end up like Stern,
A legend now dry of flavor, besides nothing rhymes with Alba.
Constipating… contemplating… compensating for
The lack of comprehension I give.
This has been a disrupted rant,
And not another silly poem.