On Being Invited to Dinner
In the dining room conversations arise,
as a game of Limeratomy—unwise,
classical speeches, all bent,
the dinner now spent,
a twist on traditional lyricist guise.
Each dinner guest, whimsical and light,
quick words that would carry the night.
but within every turn,
was a lyric to burn,
Yet sense slipped just out of sight.
The inefficacious Egg stood alone,
His joke—more sliver than bone.
Out the door, he tried to take flight,
yet trapped by what was polite.
Red in face, he finally went home.
Then Eve, with her sleight of rhyme,
after dinner, declined the last wine.
She saw through the flare,
with perceptive care,
and chose to leave fruit on the vine.
The Humorist laughed with great ease,
while crafting his jokes to appease.
but the punchlines he’d toss,
like a wood coin, were a loss,
still durable, but left us to tease.
And Georgie, that playful young chap,
Left many in tears and in a clap.
He kissed and ran free,
With a giggle-filled spree,
Escaping his well-deserved slap.
Then I with bon mot so sly, so refined,
each word polished bright in its kind.
It danced on my tongue,
with meaning well-spun,
In wit, it was perfectly timed.
Each narrative, limercised neat,
marches forth on a merry conceit.
We were invited to dine
on nonsense divine,
Where burlesque makes life complete.
WoPoLi 
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