A couple years ago, we were invited to a party in which the ticket for entry was a limerick. It’s the lowest form of poetry, which is why it’s always appealed to me. I was trapped on the tarmac at LGA the afternoon of the party and just started working one out. It was in the middle of the Eliot Spitzer / Call girl scandal, so he was the easiest target. Those original three limericks are sadly lost to history. I remember a few of the lines. I rhymed Spitzer with “schvitz her”. Once I figured out that the woman involved had a handy nine syllable name, Ashley Alexandra Dupree, I was off to the races, too.
I wrote a few last year, too, which I think are already posted. If not, I’ll get them up, but I set the bar impossibly high with the Spitzer work.
Here are the two I wrote this year:
Tiger liked to play more than one hole
Moms and kids see him a “model” role
He won’t ride in carts
But he’ll sext with some tarts
His sex rehab won’t save his soul
Elin Woods is a cute mom of two
Now knows of his penchant to screw
Pix not safe for work
He’s proved quite a jerk
He’d do many an ugly girl, too.
The Local Paper 
The first lady’s biceps are named
Thunder and Lightening, they’re famed
But Midge has great guns
(Not to mention her buns!)
Crap, my chance to get lucky just flamed.