I sent my limerick with the un-British rhyme (cattle/saddle) to a limerick contest in the Charlotte Observer, and I just found out they'll be running it tomorrow, bless their American ears.

Thanks, Dean, and welcome. I hope Leonora/Vicky likes it too.

Congratulations, Roger. I hope you celebrate with an interesting boddle.

:D That last line caps it for me, Brian. Masterful!

A few hundred feet from me as I type lies Piggies Lane. It passes between sides of houses - so no-one actually has it as their address.

Neat, Rob!
I have no problem scanning your 'Parisian or Berliner' (as long as I stress the first syllable of Parisian. Unconventional I know, but it's a limerick). However I do stumble at the hurdle of 'human' (unless I quickly and lightly canter over 'The' then make Equidae 'ek-WHY-day' rather than 'EK-wih-dee' - a manoeuvre which I admit doesn't come easily to me!)
Might 'The Equids' be served up in place of 'The Equidae', or alternatively 'as their food sources' replace 'as human food sources'? Dropping one syllable from that line helps me, at least..

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Chicken nuggets mean gold in the bank
That allows their producers to swank;
But it’s working-class health
Sacrificed to their wealth -
The food system stinks, being rank.


Colouring Books used to be
An innocent pastime for me;
Now, an adult, I look
In my Colouring Book
To check up on additives, E.


This food-faking trick’s grown in power:
It once was just sawdust in flour;
Now there’s horse, sold as beef
By some galloping thief -
The problem gets worse by the hour!


Adulteration is disgusting!
Food industry? Greedy and lusting
To turn a quick buck
By purveying us muck -
Or instead of steak sirloin, rank mustang!


‘Pink Slime’: bits, ground-up, once off-cast,
Had Oliver (Jamie) aghast:
He said “I’m no prude,
But this just ain’t real food –
It’s unfit for a human repast!”

OK, this doesn't quite obey the rukes of limericks, and it's not quite on-topic, but it was fun.

Ptarmigan Pie

We sat down to dinner with relish;
Outside, it was chilly and foggy.
The weather was dry,
But the Ptarmigan pie
Was quite inexplicably soggy.

It stuck to our teeth like a pudding;
It should have been wonderfully crusty.
The sauce in the dish
Had an odour of fish
And it tasted alarmingly musty.

For a while, we attempted to eat it;
We tried to pretend it was pheasant,
Which could explain why
It was niffy and high,
But in vain; it was just as unpleasant.

We offered the pie to our Persian,
But she wouldn’t touch it, would Hetty,
And nor would Mohammet,
Our mongrel - so, dammit,
We opened a tin of spaghetti.