Maybe it depends on whose cheek? I once gave a beginning class three poems written about the death of a child, hoping to teach them something about tone and form. The author was unidentified in all cases; the poems were Ransom's "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter," X. J. Kennedy's "Little Elegy," and this, which I created for the exercise:

......The deeply grieved dad sadly said
......As he sat at the edge of the bed:
............"It was just yesterday
............That I watched her at play,
......And now she's most grievously dead."

It was voted the most effective of the three. I trust they were a bit more discerning at the end of the course.

I think they are called multilimericks. I've also heard them called limerick-poems. So, yes, they are a different genre. Therefore, my long multilimerick (above) is not relevant to this thread.

But I'm glad you posted it. The Speccie had a competition for limerick precis of Jane Austen novels. Wendy Cope wrote some good ones - a limerick series precising The Waste Land. The first one began

In April one seldom feels cheerful

Genius!

(April is the cruelest month, John, especially for bawdy bards)

The cruelest month's gotta be April
Cause you can't write a limerick on April
there's not one smutty rhyme
for erotic springtime
There's not even a clean rhyme for April.

Nice one, Janice! Is there anything more irritating in poetry than those limericks of Lear's which have L1 & L5 'rhyming' with the same word?

There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, 'It is just as I feared!
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!'

This is to alert interested parties (hello, Martin Elster) that (with Maryann Corbett's permission) I have expunged the original limerick so it can be mailed out.

Further, there is a real chance that the entire thread may go away forever in 24 hours, since its cornerstone is now missing.
If you or your estate want anything on the thread, get it in hard copy prontissimo.

Best to all,

- Allen

Here's a melancholy limerick I wrote ages ago: -

The bindweed and rubbish hold sway there
and terminal rust's come to stay there
but when the wind sings
round the seesaws and swings
it's like ghostly children still play there.

Clive, that is beautiful

Thanks! *blush*

I agree.

Martin