Limericks about 2020

I used to write limericks. I wrote them as a kid, and then my grandfather and I started trading them when I was in college, just for a little while. He was a stickler on the meter: nine syllables in lines 1, 2, and 5. Not eight. Nine. And six in the others. Not five. 

 

So today, I’m a stickler about that, too. More on that in a bit. 

 

There’s a publication called On the Premises that runs regular fiction contests – usually extremely short fiction, like 50 words – on specific topics. Well, this time, they’re running a limerick contest: 

 

Premise: Write a limerick reflecting the author’s feelings about life in the year 2020, at least through mid-May. 

 

I’m not going to post the one I submitted, because usually publications want first-publication rights (and that seems to be the case with OTP). But here’s a few I didn’t submit: 

 

It was a vision so perfectly right,  

Until April got rolled up too tight.  

Hey, was all this a joke?  

Just a day sucking smoke?  

A hallucinogenic delight? 

 

And: 

 

They all laughed when I bought more shampoo,  

And I stocked up supplies for the loo,  

And I said I won't share,  

But damn me if I dare,  

When you smell like an untended zoo. 

 

And: 

 

We all ask what's to do, what's to be?  

In an alternate timeline we'd see:  

We're all fine, or we're done  

(By the way, the Bucks won).  

Why can't science invent that for me? -

 

Back to the limericks. OTP linked to this page in case someone needed some instruction on what a limerick is: 

 

A limerick is a humorous poem consisting of five lines. The first, second, and fifth lines must have seven to ten syllables while rhyming and having the same verbal rhythm. The third and fourth lines should only have five to seven syllables 

 

You see the problem? “Seven to ten syllables,” which flies directly in the face of my grandfather’s stickler-ness. 

 

My usual amount (five minutes) of internet research shows that this pathetically looser standard is, in fact, the accepted standard. So it turns out my grandfather was more picky than was strictly necessary, at least on this point. 

 

No matter. The die has been cast, and while you may be able to get away with “seven to nine syllables,” you’ll have to live with me looking down on you for it. 

UPDATE: 
x

 

I was not one of the ten winning entries.  You can read the winners here, if you like.  Congratulations all.  On the Premises received 377 entries, so, well, whaddayagonnado? 

 

Here’s the one I entered: 

 

Right away we got tired of the jokes 

About vision, and roaring, and smokes. 

Now we sit home perplexed, 

Hoping zombies aren’t next, 

But we won’t be surprised, will we folks?