Whenever the board has got tacky
The shout goes out loud for our Jackie
She polices the gutter
Checks each word we utter
And won't let us chew gum or 'bacca.


When ever they feeling quite frisky,
Bel, Helen and Connie get risqué
With entendres double
They get right into trouble
Then put all the blame on the whiskey.


Whenever he can't get to sleep,
Maverick sits counting sheep
At least, he tells us so;
I'm not sure if I know
If he ain't hiding something more deep!

For poems filled with appeal
None are better than Whitman O'Neill.
But his poems don't rhyme,
So I spend all my time
In trying this defect to heal.
but wotthehell, archie, toujours gaie!

If the sound of gut-scraping makes you-sick
Please keep the fact quiet from Musick
He's mourning his old car
So we mustn't go so far
As to leave him feeling too-sick.
- and I'm mourning it, too - I know how it feels to lose a beloved old mechanical friend!!!

To finish, I'll just have to lean
On words that rhymne well with Bean
Her limerick posting
(Next to Helen, the most's bin)
Are among the best that we have seen