Violin Limericks (Part 2)
Part 1 was a festival of rhyme and mirth
With a touch of the serious thrown in for girth.
Has our creativity combined
Been drained from our mind?
We'll find out what's left, and what it's worth.
Replies (99)
Another limerick thread...Oh no! HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yes, ole Sander is certainly quick,
And, I have to concede, pretty slick -
Spills out words on the pages
Ere his mind he engages,
With the aid of that there ryhyming dic.
But don't let that put you off - keep 'em coming ;-)
Sander has plain quit pounding it out
he's dried up now without a doubt
a harmless addiction
became an affliction?
he once held it highly, but now he's in doubt
he gleefully took his rhyming dic from its shelf
yielding torrents of limericks for us and himself
but did he revel
in the work of the devil
and does a word rhyme with itself?
There once was a teacher named Buri
who up and left in a hurry
I see that he's back
his spelling's still whack
so, no need to worry
For the next few days I'll hide like a weasel
ferried away by an engine of diesel
someone track these
watch my back please
Like him, I'll return to the easel
Vivaldi, Corelli, Torelli, Viotti.
My ability to know who's who is spotty.
A feast of Baroque
Is no joke.
It's as jumbled as a bowl of spighotti.
The limerick's rhythmic perfection
Can become a kind of infection.
As many have indicated,
Strict form is vindicated.
Please note the following section:
3 | 1 2 3 | 1 2 3 | 1
3 | 1 2 3 | 1 2 3 | 1
3 | 1 2 3 | 1
3 | 1 2 3 | 1
3 | 1 2 3 | 1 2 3 | 1
Though this pattern can make you scream,
Note that many a classical theme,
From Mozart to Brahms,
From concertos to psalms,
Is based on this very same scheme.
Put your left shoes on before your right shoes
eat lots of cornbread cause its good for yous
you can drive your car
to the car spa
or give a russian fiddle chick a shot of da blues
The Heifetz question, it appears,
Has gone on for a hundred years.
Was he a godly oddity?
Or an ordinary commodity
(Like you'd find at Macy's or Sears)?
Heifetz was a talent astounding,
Though the rest of his life - it lacked rounding,
He practiced his scales,
Till from all the females,
there were claps and applause quite resounding.
Sander, look what you've done with your limericks!
At first I just read them for kicks,
But they swam in my brain,
And soon were the main
attraction - in short, I'm an addict.
See, I should really be doing my math,
Or making my Bach take a bath,
(intonation, I mean,
is what needs to be clean,)
Instead I subject me to the wrath,
Of Preucil. When he hears my thirds,
He'll say, "Where's your head? With the birds?"
I'll respond, "Mr. Preucil,
My thirds are sub-par still,
The reason? Been playing with words."
You need to break up a long practice session
Preucil knows it isn't regression
if you're playing s***
He won't mind a bit
as long as it stays in a lesson
True Jim - I think you can tell
that it ain't Preucil's style to yell,
but he's such a great teacher,
(high standards will meet yer'),
Bad playing in a lesson feels, to me, just like - well...
=)
The violin concerto of Barber,
causes my cardiac muscle to harbour,
such bursting emotion,
of love and devotion,
it turns purple like grapes on an arbour.
Ah, the limerick once again does emerge.
Its presence once again does surge.
To subject violins
To the limerick's sins
Is not a dance but a durge.
The lure of the limerick is cunning.
Though in the opposite direction you're running,
Once you're hooked,
Your goose is cooked,
And you become addicted to punning.
So whatever irreverent thoughts you harbor
About Heifetz, Brahms, or Barber,
In your brain the limerick's staying,
No matter where you are playing --
At the festivals of Aspen or Marlber
.......................o
There once was an elf from Guelph
Who bought a violin off the shelf.
His primary feature
Was that he needed no teacher;
He figured out how to finger himself.
Oh no! Sander's finally done it,
He's written the poem (not a sonnet)
with elf, shelf, and Guelph,
(he said so himself),
once posted, he might want to "gun it."
Just kidding Sander, it's quite brilliant,
though - while some of these poems enchant -
others (including my own)
make my mouth want to foam,
and remind me of my silly aunt.
Nicholas, thanks for the kudo.
To be lauded for this mental Judo
Is not something garish,
But an honor to cherish.
It's for real, and not just pseudo.
The elf/Guelph challenge was a stumper
I almost threw in the dumper.
But with limericks infected,
And my inspiration resurrected,
My brain poured it out like a pumper.
His cello concerto? I adore that.
And his symphonies (nine) show he's no hack.
But I must say, I'm bored
When I hear the first chord
of the "Violinconzert" by Anton' Dvorak.
Nielsen's Violin Concerto is strong,
And to ignore its beauties is wrong.
But it could have been its fate
To have become truly great
If it was only half as long.
I missed a golden opportunity to make one slight but significant change in the previous limerick. So here's the way it SHOULD read:
Nielsen's Violin Concerto is strong,
And to ignore its beauties is wrong.
But it could have been its fate
To have become twice as great
If it was only half as long.
The Neilsen? I've played it! It's great!
Though if you're a violinist, you'll hate
the tenths in cadenza
in tune? that's nonsensa!
Practice long and they might abdicate.
I like the Nielsen (don't get me wrong),
And I'm only kidding when I say it's too long.
It's so dramatic,
That any movie fanatic
Would like it to be in King Kong.
My memory of the Nielsen is thin
But I remember I liked its curious din
And that it was played
To much accolade
By maestro Cho-liang-lin.
That is, of course, to say,
T'was on a CD I heard him play
It wasn't in concert
No matter how hard I wants it
But the CD was from the libraray
Are you concerned with meter on this thread?
If yes, then boy am I dead!
At least I rhyme,
or at least I do this time,
So I guess I'd better quit while I'm ahead!
I don't care about meter a whit.
For the limerick is an ideal pulpit
To put forth views
With humor for youse.
As for critics? I don't give a darn.
Whit
Pulpit
Darn?
Sorry, Sander. I realized after posting that that I was being just exactly what you said you didn't give darn about: a critic. I wanted to delete it, but I don't know how. Sorry!
Stephen: No problem. Love the comments. The limerick thing has been a lot of fun. Keep 'em coming.
Composers from other nations
often lend their names to mispronunciations
As in, Does Bruch
Rhyme with much?
and other such misappropriations
Now I'm not sure if that's true
I know I don't say that, do you?
I just like the way Bruch
doesn't rhyme with much
And I like the rhyming of the big words, too.
My inconsistencies may raise a hullaballoo
So please let me ask you:
Should we sacrifice facts as we know 'em
To compose an interesting poem?
Or should we work harder to rhyme and be true?
If choosing between "truth" and "rhyme" starts to nag,
And your limerick confidence starts to sag,
Let your choice be led
By what Shakespeare said:
"When in doubt, go for the gag."
The cellist named Jacqueline du Pre
Had unearthly talent; she may
Be much more than a star;
Her CD of Elgar
Is the best that I've heard to this day.
The arguments on Hillary Hahn
Are not worth getting an ulcer on.
Of the controversial Hillary,
I've had my fillery.
She's a great violinist - admit it - c'mon.
Tis the season for Messiah.
Put away your Paganini and De Falla.
Even a werewolf is blessed,
And is a welcome guest
(Just ask Maria Ouspenskia).
Ah yes, Messiah is Heavenly
Whether you're the President or Anne of Avonlea
From He shall purify
To the Pastoral Symphony
The strains cause worldwide revelry
Oh yes, and Hilary Hahn (Miss.)
I believe is a "consummate artis'"
Although it must be admitted
That my experience is limited
But surely you won't begrudge this?
(Please excuse the awful poetry
I'm a not a poet and I know-it-ry
But I try
and I sigh
And I can't help but give it a go-etry)
About the lamentable and unfortunate fact that I have not as yet become appointed this country's Poet Laureate,
I'll ingnoreit.
Sander, that sounds remarkably like the American poet, Ogden Nash!
One of my favorites, one of the funniest, one who made a splash.
I particularly like his meter, or lack thereof
And also the way he makes up his own words to rhyme with the ones above
(This wasn't meant to be a limerick, but it could be a very badly metered one if I ended in -ash)
Ah, Stephen, you have noticed in a flash
That I didn't really write the "Nash."
But it wasn't Nash or me.
It was my college roommate, you see,
Who fashioned that bit of Nash-like hash.
There once was a fellow named Flynn,
Who invented a glass violin.
Made out of mirrors,
It blinded the hearers,
But for the player, you could see where you've been.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and Happy New Year to all.
Sandy Marcus
The Fugue in a minor by Bach
is a violin piece that is chock
full of chords that are thorny,
practiced them 'till morning,
which i noticed when viewing the clock.
A niece of the late JSB
Found his sonatas her cup of tea.
She bowed all the chords
Using military swords,
And it shortened the performance, you see.
Uranium rosin is prone
To eat your bow down to the bone.
The critics may fume,
And all leave the room,
But you'll be praised for your glowing tone.
That gives a new meaning to heavy metal music!
The Uranium Rosin's attractive
But my teacher says it's not didactive
You could go on the air
If your station is fair
And in this way be radioactive
"In a radioactive bow, every proton
Will keep its electronic coat on.
It explodes like bombs
When playing Brahms."
(A warning, and why I put this quote on)
And so ends another year.
I haven't made good use of my time, I fear.
Should I practice a scale
Before it gets stale?
Naawww, I'll watch football and have a beer.
And so 2005 comes to an end
With its failures and disasters - But I contend
That sharing music's song
Is where we belong.
It is capital we all should spend.
Amati, Stainer, Guarnerius,
Vuillaume, Guadagnini, Stradivarius.
If alive in today's world
Would have united and unfurled
A franchise called "Violins 'R' Us."
The Ballad Of One Paris Hilton
there once was a young hotel heiress
with the same name as that place they call Paris
she made donuts with her Benz
a cop said, I's takin' yous ins.
And her mug shot made Aphrodite embarassed
Then something happened, I don't know what
She escaped from that place without firing a shot
maybe someone was smitten
with this luxurious kitten
and just said "go home, all's forgot
The judges phone at the golf course did ring
and a voice said a terrible thing
"miss Hilton's at home
the D.A.'s mouth looks like foam"
the judge said "to me you must her bring"
This smart judge he done knowed
go get her or be no-showed
he sent a car
and not a limo with bar
to go get her while red he did glowed
She sobbed and she weeped and she moaned
she said I got ten kids at home
the judge said no you don't
go back to the joint
and he looked at his watch and he groaned
So she rots behind bars to this day
doing hard labor, without pay
with an undisclosed medical problem
that must be some really bad goblin
it's so bad that nobody will say.
With poetry worthy of Milton,
You have satirized poor Ms. Hilton.
But why on this web
Have you featured this deb
Without a violin connection built-in?
Well maybe you are mistaken
Ms Hilton may not cook her own bacon,
But when put to the test
She sure does her best
To make sure that to jail she is taken.
(sorry couldn't help it.)
So she rots behind bars to this day
picking cotton on a chain gang in L.A.
but we'll get her out
of that there's no doubt
if we all write to Congress and pray
help......
As to the Paris Hilton saga,
It's not enough to make you go "ga-ga."
If she can't play Tchaikovsky,
Then I've had enough-ski.
All I can say is, guten tage.
Getting older is one of my fears;
I don't think the shock ever clears.
You've maintained the jive
In keeping alive
This Discussion for almost two years.
I remember when I was 18
and looked like a strapping Marine
there wasn't a trace
of lines on my face
and my toenails hadn't turned green
Considering Paris' beliefs regarding the violin and those that play it, I find it odd that anyone one would even bother to mention her name on this site.
This is in reference to her upcoming album.
"I'm not going to be onstage playing the violin. That would be gay."
http://socialitelife.com/2005/11/21/a_quote_from_paris_hilton.php
I swear, they're conspiring against me to try to either drive me crazy or make me go deaf; but it won't work. I survived the Backstreet Boys, N'sync and The Spice Girls and I will survive the Paris Hilton like socialites.
Dear Juanita...
We'll arrest you instead
For what you just said...
It's kind of a crime
If you can't make a rhyme
On our V-dot-com limerick thread!
;)
If Mozart were alive today, he would be...
This man is a Musical Prodigy,
Though often a bit of an oddigy,
His lyrics are crude,
Choreographies rude,
Main topic is human biology.
In London I must find a home,
Next to the Millenium Dome,
For there I can dance*,
To the artist called Prance,
Otherwise known as s*x gnome
* really nice balletic choregraphy to Condition of the Heart
AAARRGGGHHH
You all are so insane
I can't believe this limerick craze
Far from this rhyming fury
I do intend to scurry
With all that remains of my tortured membrane
I found upon a music store shelf,
a little lady who cast her spell.
She grabbed my heart no longer free,
and coyly whispered, play me play me.
My being a man from Xanadu,
of windmills spread, no fears or dread,
I took her gently on my shoulder,
stroking her strings softly then bolder.
She sang a song pizzicato then,
and whispered pick up the bow my friend.
knowing my soul would never mend,
she played a single note, that would never end.
Ready to bolt, I called my trusty steed to action,
and said dear lady release me to see her reaction.
She laughed and sang even louder than before,
knowing full damn well, I'd leave her no more.
Limericks only, people. No sonnets, blank verse, or virelai nouveau.
I have become stricken
by a lyrical infliction
I get no respite
from this troublesome blight
and can feel nothing but vexation
Glad my rhyme got your attention,
but I don't need no intervention,
Whatever I dunth,
It's that time of the month,
For suffering Pre Concert Tension
My poetry's quite a disaster,
these rhymes have no charme and no luster -
coz my english sucks
I'd spend a few bucks
to perish in style under masters.
(My very first rhyme on viola
ends up in "Olà, ayatollah!!",
I better accept
I'm lame and inept
to write like Wilde or E dot Zola.)
A violist once had a nightmare:
in this his existence was unfair,
full suffer and scoff
he tried to wake off,
but he stucked in this dream in despair.
Imagine a dream made by Milton,
With miserable hopelessness filled in,
no pride and no fun,
just woe and some stun,
a voice in this dream says "That's built in."
But then he's roused by his assistence,
he hears an applause from a distance,
his service is done,
he's still full of stun,
this nightmare is just his existence.
Any violinist (even Jim 'r Nick)
Can put together a limerick.
But why so much gloom
That just fills the room
With sadder and dimmer schtick?
Now dancing is really my passion,
And at London Proms it's in fashion,
Vengerov will do Tango,
It should with a bango,
Especially considering he's Rassian
Strathspeys and reels tickled Yehudi,
And put him in excellent moody,
But would he have passed,
On his pas de bas,
And if asked for a Highland Fling would he?
The Prom's silly mugging
is to me like some drugging
the british say "bang-o
a russian will tango"
I'd rather see French jitterbugging
Oh Mischa, your efforts are golden,
And none of your lines have been stolen (^),
You've done a good job,
There no need to sob,
That 'on this website, Deutsch ist verboten'
Thanks Ally for your kind replying,
well, "Deutsch ist verboten"... hogtieing! :(
we have some great words
which twitter like birds,
like Bodengrundheizungsverteiling.
There was a young fiddler named Buri,
who would type-up his posts in a hurry.
All the phrases were writ, 'sif the poor man had a fit,
hence the meaning was oft left a bit blurry.
You Yankees just cannot abide,
Us Brits to have fun, dip'n'glide,
Josh Bell could do Splits,
And damage his Bitz,
So he'd better stick to Barnyard Slide
The Brits wanted Bell to clodhopper dance
but he might hurt his bitz, he can't take that chance
He's now old and poopy
and can't risk one groupie
therefore he'll play but not prance
Those Germans are very proficient,
It must be how they were condition't,
To pass off as rhyme,
One word for one line,
Jawohl, das ist really efficient**
But before we go on any further,
I must stick to the tongue of my mother,
'Taliano, not known,
Franglais, Spanglish, got some,
So which language can we now murder?
**Alternative ending:
Like Jim's recycling, REAL efficient!
I started the Berg-Concerto recently...
When Berg's Alban finished this concert,
he thought an inscription would not hurt,
he signed at the top,
"For angel" next op. (opus),
and died of a sepsis (that's blood dirt).
To catch Berg's music is quite thorny,
for me and my neighbor (attourney!)
I couldn't ignore
the knocks on the door -
no angel - just scorny attorney.
"We lived out your Brahms and your Mozart!
Your Bach-fugues? Tourette syndrome-brainfarts!
Enough is enough!
Stop playing that stuff,
or I'll play the 'breach of the peace'-card!"
I hate being paused in my Berg-gym,
of course I have tried to explain him:
dodecaphony
(12 tones and no key),
Vienna, the angel, some ism's...
He stood in my room like Dick Cheney,
"That concept ain't be any brainy.
And you are too soon
the heck outta tune:
12 tones are still 12 tones too many!"
[dedicated to my neighbor]
You guys are such a hopeless shower,
At the last seven verses now glower,
All come from woo-man,
An' Europee-an,
wha' 'appenin'?, 'Girl Powa'!
I can't respond to Alison's mockery
usually her limericks you could say rock me
This time as I sit here,
and give her the old ear,
all I know is she's gotten all Cockney.
Jim, those were much better lyrics,
All brand new, and shiny, and not nicked,
I'll give you a secret,
And hope you can keep it,
Football's what gives Mischa her kicks.
The Beckhams have gone to L.A.,
(And the nation cried Hip Hip HOORAY!)
Dave's whiney voice,
Was not my first choice,
We're begging you, please let them stay!!
not rhyming your rhymes is as rude
as going to church in the nude.
On other matters,
why's your football have batters?
and I always thought M. was a dude.
I also thought Mischa a male,
Her full name, I thought, was "Mikhail,"
A Russian, I considered.
But perspective's transfigured!
(As it would be after drinking some ale?)
A poet I've become! it's foolish
--and some of these limericks are ghoulish--
But at Sander's command,
We take pen in hand,
and...try to think what rhymes with "ghoulish."
The rhyme. It's elusive as vapor
When attempting to put words to paper.
English is the bane
(though I never complain)
Of my life! And of this silly caper.
There once was a man called Szigeti,
Whose name did NOT rhyme with "spaghetti..."
OK, that's not going anywhere.
But it was good while it lasted :)
sheesh is all I can say.
It's violin not poems I want to play,
but Maura made me grin,
violin at the chin,
sheesh I forgot what I was gonna say.
It's obviously time for two outings
my passport is batt'ring all doubtings,
to go in detail:
I'm german and male
(though Russia's where my Ma's from coming).
But Alison knows that, this Missy,
in soccer the Brits don't act prissy,
they love to stress out,
(beyond any doubt)
we're divers and cheaters and sissies.
To come back to themes for musicians,
there's something you see in auditions:
a messed up cadence
played anxious and dense
your journey home finished your mission...
You cry in the train without footing,
this sorrow and pain let's you snooting,
you played so damned well,
and now this farewell!!
(this cadence's called penalty shooting). :(
A limerick isn't a saga;
some folks here are starting to go gaga.
Keep it simple and short
(said Ol' Mitch with a snort)--
We shouldn't have to use a defogga'.
OK, let me give it a try:
There once was a man called Szigeti,
Whose name did NOT rhyme with "spaghetti..."
"See'-getti" is right.
If you can't see the light,
You must be a cultural Yeti.
Hot diggety diggety,
I think I've got the hang of Szigeti.
And Ligeti's the same,
What a fun game!
Although my Hungarian is kind of rickety.
Although it's no heinous crime,
I confess I'm surprised all the time
To see aural pros' fumbling,
And clumsily stumbling
O'er meter and scansion and rhyme.
A woodworm, who worked in Cremona,
became a non grata persona:
he boarded a Strad
and gnawed the bridge flat,
(he loved to dine and hear Ciaccona).
These are brilliant.
this is a first ever attempt - don't be too hard on a rookie.
There once was a guy from Odessa
Who fared so-so in da Chiesa
But when given a chance
To read through that Brahms
All were stunned, even Mother Theresa
Pssst. Read through that Brahms = read Witch's Dance. I'll change this and nobody will know.
too late. what's done is done. i tried ;-)
Nice!
Following Mischa's disclosure,
I'm trying to maintain my composure,
Just look at the count,
Time is running out,
To maximise rhythm exposure
I anticipate with glee a hundred,
this threads obseletion then under,
my tired eyes disclosure,
my no rhyming composure,
may practice when this is all over.
The limerick's lure is bright,
But an addict is surely a fright.
It gets into your blood,
Turns your brain into mud,
And lasts just like coprolite.*
*fossilized animal feces
From primitive civilization,
Descendant from every nation,
To pluck, bow and strum,
Along with the drum,
Has become a human vocation.
Hurry up and finish this thread. Please set me free!
Contemporary composers it's true
write music till their faces are blue.
But nobody listens
so now they're just wishin'
they had something better to do.
There was a pianist named Farkazs
who said practice was bad for his carcass.
His skills just eroded
His career, it imploded.
He's now playing at Neiman-Marcass.
It seems unreal,
to see an end,
to this exercise in rhyme,
and images penned.
I just can't stand it,
only two more to go.
I'm so much tempted,
to pen on the scroll!.
And so we near the final coda
Of this doggeral poetic floata'.
Though it's been a kick,
It has made some sick.
(Maybe we should have consulted Yoda)
Fear not, O ye wordsmiths so witty!
That this thread's reached its end is a pity,
But it's quite plain to see
There must soon be "Part Three!"
To continue these ludicrous ditties.
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October 31, 2005 at 09:35 PM · My obsessed mind keeps cranking them out.
The limericks pour as from a spout.
But the impact, in the main,
Is to dull the brain.
It's a limerick rout without doubt.