Limericks -- #16, 17, 18, 19

There was an uninteresting girl from New Highs.
Visit New Highs, a gastronome's paradise.
They bake an exquisite pie.
Where was I?
An unint... try their French fries!

There was a planet-maker from Houston. 
He had some angular momenta but he'd ousnon.
The dark sides got cold,
Therefore he was told
He could only keep his job if a fouspon.

There shall be a queen from Florence.
To hate aging she will commence;
She'd slit the throat
Of anyone that wrote
Anything of her in past tense.

There was a young man from Kitts. 
There was a young man from Ritz. 
10
Men
Have appeared in these lines (in bits). 

Second Person Mingular

For your reference:

Collection	of	critters
Company	of	parrots
Crash	of	rhinoceroses
Culture	of	bacteria
Dropping	of	pigeons
Implausibility	of	gnus
Intrigue	of	kittens
Murder	of	crows
Parliament	of	owls
Pride	of	lions
School	of	fish
Storytelling	of	ravens

'Send me to a new school!' wailed the daughter trout;

'Not a chance!' said her pa, 'Can't simply saunter out

We've been here too long; our family records indicate

Every link in our lineage swam with this syndicate.'

'What school, blessed parent, are you talking about?'

'Why, the throng we occupy day in and day out!'

Amused viewer, you know what the littler fish meant,

Alluding as she was to her academic establishment.

The collective noun, in our race a stock curse,

Is amongst our fellow evolvers only worse.

Yet dare you blame Earth's lovesome creatures

For their short supply of English teachers?

A lone specimen of beast is shrewd and winning;

Cast him with his peers and his sanity's a-spinning.

You don't concur? You remonstrate?

Allow me then to d_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Take crows. You often catch one flying

Between branch and antenna trying

To avert his pals, for nothing's absurder

Than knowing it takes two to murder.

Airplanes give me bad food and a dry nose

Yet that’s not why I shan't fly with rhinos,

For one per flight is already rash --

Haul more up and you've got me a crash.

Now how would you react, sir, if I state

You lack culture in private?

Yet such sociological delirium

Is the fate of the bacterium.

(a) Since three's a crowd and two company,

      Pair up your parrots, but don't clump any.

(b) Dissolve a parliament only if you're prepared

      To have an owl-pecked epidermis repaired.

(c) Never hurt a lion's pride;

      A few have, trying, died.

Haven't your doubts on the subject diminished?

Then don't leave yet, our business is unfinished.

You would presume it an elementary tact

To keep society out one's alimentary tract,

But pigeons of the same feather

Create a giant dropping together.

Mischief, though, is not their intent;

No, sir, that the lab mice invent.

Invention, ah, it fetches to mind the other crow,

The darker-plumed child of E. Allan Poe:  

The heart of the raven must be brimming with myth

For it's storytelling time always when he's with kith.

Yarns of the greatest intrigue would he tell,

Albeit on kittens does he hardly dwell.

[When, however, he slideth into truth-saying mode,
 He walketh the righteous, unsensationalist road;

An impossibility is banned off raven news.

(An implausibility is a band of ravin' gnus.)]

These coincidences, sir, cannot be random,

Hence quod erat demonstrandum.

A passenger on the Ark who had had his way

Resents it hard when he becomes a they.

Limerick #15: The Plight of the Classingtons

There was a young man from Limerick

Whose name was Classington Jim Eric;

For Mr and Mrs Classington, his rhyme-loving parents, when they brought Eric into our world sought for him a suitable middle name, and noticed their town's connection to humoury verse,

And as even all their love for the lyrical had never aided them to summon a word that for every syllable rhymed with their city's name [can you find one? Give it a shot], they concocted a brainchild: they settled on 'Jim' and advertised the toddler's name in reverse.

So the coincidence isn't quite chimeric.

Lofty Intentions

The known number of differences between a peak and an acme

is one.

It is akin to the dissimilarity between the turns of phrase 'Fire me' and 'Sack me' --

there's none.

The one is a word uttered by habitual hikers who in their devotion to scale altitude

are staunch,

The other used by unfit non-climbers who put on constant display, beside verbal aptitude,

their paunch.

This humble bard has authored a tune for the crooning benefit of the former crop;

hum it:

'Should you wonder how high, measure for every uphill step you take the vertical distance gained, have a sequence of these numbers jotted down and then when you reach the top,

summit.'

(As written in my mobile drafts on a solo trek up Spencer Butte.)

Spellbound

Jalapenos aren't spicy,

Nor a facade dicey.

A coup de grace will lend a handle,

And Hanukkahs kill the candle.

Negligees don't enchant,

Eons can be short and an angstrom can't.

But
Jalapeños are,

A façade is,
A coup de grâce won't,

Ḥănukkāhs don't,
Negligées do,
Æons can't and an ångström can.

The Bards that Moaned

'Take out the garbage yourself', said the poets.
'Pick up the children on your way back,
And stop asking me to do the dishes.
Make love I can, if need be --

But my domestic obligations end there.
I'm a poet first and a poet last.
All the time in the world need I to
Polish my rhymes, sharpen my metaphors,
Revise the metre, and alliterate.
What can you know of the joy of composition?
The rapture, the tears of cathartic fulfillment,
The comprehensive car-wash of the soul.
But do you realize how colon-clenching and
Time-consuming it is? Leave me alone.
If I were to die tomorrow, you would
Bury me with a poem in my chest

That never got to know the light of day
Or the scent of paper.'
Ergo, the wealthy man kidnapped them all
And put them in a spaceship.
'Now, ladies and gentlemen, you haven't
Anything to complain about', he smiled wide.
'All the privacy you please, and all of time
Lie sprawled at your feet. We shall fly to
Triton and back; that gives us nineteen years.
Slip a cushion beneath your bottom,
Get all that verse out of your bosom.
I hereby bequeath you the paradise
You sought and ached everyday for.'
Within the first year,
The poets killed themselves.
They had nobody to read them.