Since Sam did not take up my challenge to transform his bad joke into a bad poem, I felt compelled to do it myself. Somebody had to step up to the plate. (As you see, I've followed Frank's brilliant and innovative stanzaic-limerick form.)
Once a poor fellow named Mort
told his sweetheart (a critical sort)
that he'd had polio,
to which she said "Oh,
no wonder your third leg's so short!"
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