No More Rhymes Now, I Mean It.
Increasingly, I find myself turning even simple statements into poems. Perhaps I’m as annoying in this as Fezzik was to Vizzini in “The Princess Bride”:
Inigo: That Vizzini, he can fuss.
From “The Princess Bride”
Fezzik: Fuss, fuss … I think he like to scream at us.
Inigo: Probably he means no harm.
Fezzik: He’s really very short on charm.
Inigo: You have a great gift for rhyme.
Fezzik: Yes, yes, some of the time.
Vizzini: Enough of that.
Inigo: Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?
Fezzik: If there are, we all be dead.
Vizzini: No more rhymes now, I mean it.
Fezzik: Anybody want a peanut?
The Poem’s Inspiration
I don’t recall the context of the exchange, but one of my Facebook friends wrote the following, and her first two sentences seemed like the beginning and premise for a limerick:
I once met a woman at the mall who had seven children in tow: an oldest child, a pair of twins, and, youngest of all, a set of quadruplets. Each pregnancy subsequent to the first doubled the outcome the one prior. If I were in her shoes, I think I’d probably put my foot down regarding future pregnancies.
Laurie Pearce Mathers
