SMS and Jokes

Limericks and Poems (Jokes)

There was a young farmer from Delhi Whose thing reduced lovers to Jelhi He had them in bed, in the barn and the shed, but alone he just came on his Belhi

There once was a whore from Peru Who filled her pussy with glue She said with a grin If they'll pay to get in Then they'll pay to get out of me too!

There once was a Lady from Madras, who had a magnificent ass it was not round, rosy and pink as you think But had long ears and ate grass.

There was a young athlete named Grimmon Who developed a new way of swimmin': By a marvellous trick He would row with his prick, Which attracted loud cheers from the women.

Sing to the tune of Winter Wonderland............ Lacy things -- the wife is missin', Didn't ask -- her permission, I'm wearin' her clothes, Her silk pantyhose, Walkin' 'round in women's underwear. In the store -- there's a teddy, Little straps -- like spaghetti, It holds me so tight, Like handcuffs at night, Walkin' 'round in women's underwear. In the office there's a guy named Melvin, He pretends that I am Murphy Brown. He'll say, "Are you ready?" I'll say,"Whoa, Man!" "Let's wait until our wives are out of town!" Later on, if you wanna, We can dress -- like Madonna, Put on some eyeshade, And join the parade, Walkin' 'round in women's underwear! Lacy things... missin', Didn't ask... permission, Wearin' her clothes, Her silk pantyhose, Walkin' 'round in women's underwear. Walkin' 'round in women's underwear, Walkin' 'round in women's underwear!

There once was a man named Mort Whose dick was incredibly short When he climbed into bed His lady friend said "That's not a dick it's a wart"

Sony's new error messages in Haiku form Yesterday it worked Today it is not working Windows is like that Wind catches lily scatt'ring petals to the wind: segmentation fault Three things are certain: Death, taxes and lost data. Guess which has occurred. A file that big? It might be very useful. But now it is gone. Windows NT crashed. I am the Blue Screen of Death. No one hears your screams. Errors have occurred. We won't tell you where or why. Lazy programmers. Seeing my great fault Through darkening blue windows I begin again The code was willing, It considered your request, But the chips were weak. Printer not ready. Could be a fatal error. Have a pen handy? Server's poor response Not quick enough for browser. Timed out, plum blossom. Chaos reigns within. Reflect, repent and reboot. Order shall return. Login incorrect. Only perfect spellers may enter this system. ABORTED effort: Close all that you have. You ask way too much. First snow, then silence. This thousand dollar screen dies so beautifully. With searching comes loss and the presence of absence: "My Novel" not found. the Tao that is seen Is not the true Tao, until You bring fresh toner The Web site you seek cannot be located but endless others exist Stay the patient course Of little worth is your ire The network is down A crash reduces your expensive computer to a simple stone. There is a chasm of carbon and silicon the software can't bridge. To have no errors Would be life without meaning No struggle, no joy. You step in the stream, but the water has moved on. This page is not here. No keyboard present Hit F1 to continue Zen engineering? Out of memory We wish to hold the whole sky, but we never will Having been erased, The document you're seeking Must now be retyped. The ten thousand things How long do any persist? Netscape, too, has gone. Serious error. All shortcuts have disappeared. Screen. Mind. Both are blank. Rather than a beep Or a rude error message, These words: "File not found." And a postscript from Roger McGough......... writing a poem in seventeen syllables is very diffic

There once was a farmer from Hay Whose hens all refused to lay. The trouble was Brewster, The champion rooster, Because Brewster, the rooster, was gay.

An accident really uncanny, Befell an unfortunate granny. She sat down in a chair While her false teeth were there, And bit herself right in the fanny!

The breasts of a barmaid of Crale Were tattooed with the price of brown ale And on her behind for the sake of the blind Was the same information in Braille.

There was a young lady named Rose Who'd occasionally straddle a hose, And parade about squirting And spouting and spurting, Pretending she pissed like her beaux She was seen by her cousin named Anne, Who improved the original plan. She said, "My dear Rose, In this lowly old hose Are all the best parts of a man." So, avoiding the crude and sadistic, She frigged in a manner artistic: At the height of her pleasure She turned up the pressure, And cried, "Ain't it grand and realistic!" They soon told the Duchess of Fyfe, And her crony, the alderman's wife; And they found it so pleasing, And tickling and teasing That they washed men right out of their life. It was tried by the great Mrs. Biddle, And she said to her husband, "Go fiddle! Here's double the fun, And you get three in one--- A ducking, a douche and a diddle." It was tried by the dancer, Di Basle, Whose cunt was just made for a nozzle. She said, "I admit It's an elegant fit, But of course it won't do for the arse 'ole." It was tried by the Duchess of Porter, And passed on by her to her daughter, Who said, "With a leman You're fearful of semen, But a fuck's as effective with water." Thus writes Lady Vanderbilt-Horsett, Who invented the Lonely-Maid's Corset: "I thought all vicarious Fucking precarious. I was wrong. It's a whiz. I endorse it." Soon in Paris, on the Boulevard Salique, Yous should purchase (complet avec talic, Pour soixante francs cinq) A short hose and a tank, And they call it Le Fuckeur Hydraulique.

There once was a queen from Bulgaria whose bush grew hairier and hairier a prince from Peru came up for a screw and had to hunt for her cunt with a terrier.

Jack and Jill went up the hill And planned to do some kissing. Jack made a pass, and grabbed her ass; And now his two front teeth are missing.

There once was a man named McSweeny , who spilled some gin on his weenie. Well, just to be couth, he added vermouth. And slipped his girl a martini.

There was a mathematician named Hall who had an octagonal ball the cube of its weight plus his penis times eight was twice the square root of fuck all!

There was a young girl of Angina Who stretched catgut 'cross her vagina. From the love-making frock, (with the proper sized cock,) Came Tocata and Fugue in D minor.

There was a young lady at sea Who said "Gosh, how it hurts me to pee." "I see," said the mate, "That accounts for the state Of the Captain, the purser, and me."

There was a young fellow from Sparta. A really magnificent farter. On the strength of one bean He'd fart "God Save the Queen," And Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. He could vary, with proper persuasion, His fart to suit any occasion. He could fart like a flute, Like a lark, like a lute, This highly fartistic Caucasian. This sparkling young farter from Sparta, His fart for no money would barter. He could roar from his rear Any scene from Shakespeare, Or Gilbert and Sullivan's Mikado. Nobody could play the classics finer, As he showed me one day in the diner. I had a bagel with lox while played from his buttocks: Chopin's Etude No.12 in C-minor. He'd fart a gavotte for a starter, And fizzle a fine serenata. He could play on his anus The Coriolanus: Oof, boom,er-tum,tootle, yum tah-dah! He was great in the Christmas Cantata, He could double-stop fart the Toccata, He'd boom from his ass Bach's B-Minor Mass, And in counterpoint, La Traviata. Spurred on by a very high wager With an envious German named Bager, He'd proceeded to fart The complete oboe part Of a Haydn Octet in B-major. His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz, He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas. With a good dose of salts He could whistle a waltz Or swing it in razzamatazz. His basso profundo with timbre so rare He rendered quite often, with power to spare. But his great work of art, His fortissimo fart, He saved for the Marche Militaire. One day he was dared to perform The William Tell Overture Storm, But naught could dishearten Our spirited Spartan, For his fart was in wonderful form. It went off in capital style, And he farted it through with a smile, Then, feeling quite jolly, He tried the finale, Blowing double-stopped farts all the while. The selection was tough, I admit, But it did not dismay him one bit, Then, with his ass thrown aloft He suddenly coughed... And collapsed in a shower of shit. His bunghole was blown back to Sparta, Where they buried the rest of our farter, With a gravestone of turds Inscribed with the words: "To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."

And every full moon She took a big spoon And drank herself under the table

There was a young couple named Kelly Who had to live belly to belly Because in their haste They used library paste Instead of petroleum jelly

There was a young fellow from Kent Whose prong was so long that it bent So to save himself trouble He put in a double And instead of coming He went

A lisping young lady named Beth Was saved from a fate worse than death Seven times in a row It unsettled her so that she quit saying no and said Yeth

There was a young farmer from Nant Whose conduct was gay and gallant For he lay all his dozens Of nieces and cousins In addition of course to his aunt

Hey diddle, diddle, the cat did a piddle, All over the bedside clock. The little dog laughed to see such fun And the cat died of electric shock.

There was a young man from Mauritius, Who said his last fuck was delicious, But the next time I come, It'll be up your bum, 'Cause that scab on your cunt looks suspicious.

There once was a man named Hyatt, Who's sexual habits were a riot, From horses to hens, To mices and mens, If it had a hole, he would try it.

I chase all the girls when I'm spunky A five day a week sexual junky I tend not to stray On Tues- or Wednesday On those nights I spank my own monkey.

There once was a lady from Hyde, Who ate a green apple and died, While her lover lamented, The apple fermented, and made cider inside her inside.

There was a young lady of Dexter Whose husband exceedingly vexed her, For whenever they'd start He'd unfailingly fart With a blast that damn nearly unsexed her.

Beneath these rocks, lies Mary Cox, To a thousand men she gave the pox, She may be gone but not forgotten, Her heart was good, but her box was rotten.

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Jokes