I suspect the cause is-somehow-the internet. (To speak of men’s room graffiti is to raise a nettlesome inquiry: where on earth did they go? These days, unlike the days of my youth, you very seldom find a men’s room stall darkly scribbled with lubricious verses. These constructions are miles away from the modern-day “dirty limerick,” the sort one used to encounter with dependable regularity on the unwashed walls of public men’s rooms. He danced hornpipes and jigs, and ate thousands of figs, Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier When the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed, “What of that?” He’d lead you to marvel at the upthrust oddness of the world: Rather, he sought to leave us with tremolos of wistful eccentricity. The denouement wasn’t simply unsurprising it was wholly predictable. When Edward Lear published A Book of Nonsense, in 1846, the final line of his limericks usually repeated the first. These occur mostly within light verse.īecause the modern-day limerick belongs so firmly to the comedian, especially the bawdy comedian, we’ve come to expect the delivery of a (wink, wink) double entendre at its close. It turns out there are moments when wordplay, taking on a structural element, does hold things together. Still, poetry is a tricky enterprise, routinely upending generalizations that would contain or confine it. But it won’t keep your walls and ceiling from coming down. Choice of paint is a crucial decision-potentially elevating a room from the merely functional to the inviting and comely. If rhyme and meter are its beams and joists, wordplay is the artfully chiseled balustrade, the pillowed window seat, the foliated mantel frieze, the coordinated hues adorning the interior walls.
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