Racy Limericks: John Johnson From Wisconsin

I’m sure you have heard of John Johnson

He was born at Oconto, Wisconsin

He drove the girls crazy

Especially Miss Daisy

He looked like a young Charles Bronson

At thirty John Johnson was a virgin

Quite desperate, he met with his surgeon

Said the doc, “This is bad”

“You could lose your doodad”

So John Johnson had sex with a sturgeon

John Johnson still hadn’t much sex

He went out with a pal’s former ex

John tickled her nose

As he tugged at her clothes

But she said, “I have herpes simplex” 

John Johnson met a lady of the night

She brought him to the house of red light

John asked her how much

She said such and such

One second and John was in flight

John Johnson went back to the bar

He spotted three cuties from afar

They gave him a wink

Which caused John to think

“Perhaps they will strum my guitar”

Then John met a girl named Marie

Marie approached life with such glee

John Johnson said, “Let’s do it”

Marie said, “Oh screw it”

And that’s what she did and for free

John Johnson had a girlfriend named Ruby

Miss Ruby had tattoos on her booby

She loved a good time

She would strip for a dime

And then she would do scooby-dooby

John Johnson had eyes for Ms. Mary

But toward him Ms. Mary was wary

John came to her house/

Stuck his hand in her blouse

But Ms. Mary screamed loudly, “How dare he!”

John Johnson knew a girl named Ora

And Ora had a sister named Flora

John met them one night

To their mutual delight

They pretended to be in Gomorrah

John Johnson seduced Goody Smith

He had her imbibe half a fifth

They lay down in bed

And although she played dead

John Johnson proceeded forthwith

John lured Miss Babette to his room

On the guise she could see his heirloom

As he unzipped his fly

Babette poked him in the eye

And John’s lust transformed into gloom

Widow Murphy took Johnson to bed

The widow, of course, was well-bred

She declared, “This is wrong”

As she burst into song

And they played Chinese Checkers instead

John Johnson had a thing for Miss Suzy

He tricked her and got her quite boozy

But she smacked him in the nose

Then strangled him with her hose

R.I.P., John, done in by a floozy

John’s Heavenly stay had begun

He found an angel who could be the one

Alas, her true love was her harp

Sacred songs in C sharp

John asked her if Hell were more fun

The Ballad of Paul Bunyan, U.P. Lumberjack

The most famous figure in my home town

Was Paul Bunyan, the great lumberjack

He dug the Menominee River

He could level ten pines with one whack

Paul Bunyan was born in Menominee County

He weighed over one hundred pounds 

It took five storks to deliver him

Six wet-nurses made daily rounds

Each time baby Paul rolled over in his sleep

He would flatten an acre of trees

His parents built a raft on Lake Michigan

But Milwaukee would flood when he’d sneeze

As a child Paul Bunyan was not only strong

He was faster than a lightning arc

He could turn off his light and leap into bed

Before his room even got dark

Paul found a blue ox in a snowdrift

Took him home and young Babe grew so fast

A crow took an hour to fly twixt Babe’s horns

When he burped, mountains crumbled from the blast

Babe could pull anything Paul wanted

For example, their crooked logging road

Babe pulled on that road till it straightened out

And that new road carried ten times the load

Babe was in need of a watering hole

Paul Bunyan dug one with his axe

Today it’s the Lake called Superior

Pictured Rocks were formed by Babe’s tracks

Paul and Babe took a hike through Minnesota

Their footprints in the earth were so big

Those depressions became the 10,000 lakes

And Babe drank them up in one swig

A log jam blocked the Menominee River

Paul poked Babe’s rear end with a spear

Babe swished his tail and broke up the jam 

And that river stayed clear for a year

The axe men in Paul’s camp were eight feet tall

And each had the same name of Sven

When Paul called “Sven” the whole crew came running

Dragging sled-loads of logs from the glen

Sourdough Sam made pancakes at their camp 

His griddle covered thirteen full acres

Twenty-five men with bacon on their feet

Greased that griddle to help out the bakers

Paul Bunyan enjoyed a pipe after dinner

And he blew his smoke far away

It floated westward over the hills

Creating the smog in L.A.  

The winter of ’07 was so brutally cold

The axe men’s words froze in mid-air 

Those words remained frozen until the spring thaw

Then they heard melting chatter everywhere

No one is certain where Paul is today

Some think he is at the North Pole

They say he returns to the U.P. each May

Bringing Babe for a leisurely stroll 

The Best Valentine's Day Ever

Valentine’s Day

It’s hard to keep track

Last year the doorbell rang and a man in a Nascar cap

Delivered a dozen red roses

Dark ruby red, opulent, bursting with color

A mystery gift for my wife

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” the card proclaimed

Then continued, “To Katja from David”

“What’s this?” I thought

Bamboozled, confused

I hadn’t ordered flowers

No memory, not a clue

Besides which, they must have cost a fortune

Just then Katja appeared on the stairs

A beaming smile on her face

“Thank you so much,” and she kissed my cheek

I started to speak but she whispered, “I know”

The flowers, she explained, were from NPR

A thank you for her annual pledge

She asked they be sent in my name

“What’s this?” I thought

Mortified, dismayed

“My wife has to send my Valentine?”

I pretended I had pressing matters

And scurried down the street to the store

I picked the gooiest card on the rack —

Eight Ninety-Nine, it played a perky song

Then a super-sized box of chocolate turtles —

Nineteen ninety-nine

Plus tax

Katja was thrilled, I have to say

In fact, I would say ecstatic

Not the chocolates, not the card, but that I’d come through

(Even though I had gotten a reminder)

She called it the best Valentine’s Day ever

And that may be true of our times so far

But, if I dig deep, 

There’s no telling, 

Perhaps I could  do even better

My Life Is Made Up of Limericks

I retired some eight years ago

Stopping work was at first a big blow

We go to museums

Check out mausoleums

And, more or less, go with the flow 

Our number one trip is to NOLA

More refreshing than chilled Coca-Cola

The French Quarter’s grand

There’s a Zydeco band

It comes straight from a novel by Zola 

Our grandkids have reached eight years old

Each year they get more and more bold

Pokemon gives L esprit

Dogs are heaven to V

“You children are angels,” they’re told

Line dancing’s my current obsession

Each Tuesday I race to my session

Chilly Cha Cha’s the greatest

Uptown Funky, the latest

This fancy has cured my depression

My other whim’s poetry writing 

Making limericks can be so exciting

Except starting is hard

I am hardly a bard

And it take me long hours of rewriting

We go to the movies on Friday nights

Drawn like moths to the marquis lights

 We prefer our films arty

With plots that are hearty

And now and then a few vampire bites

I read the New York Times every morn

The news usually leaves me forlorn

Stories deal with Trump

How he acts like a chump

Then goes on to toot his own horn

In winter we watch more TV

It’s geared to the mind of a flea

The reality shows suck

Police dramas, sheer muck

And with Fox News, we’ll never agree

I go to the gym every week

With false dreams I’ll still reach my peak

I do the elliptical

Chanting mantras so cryptical

Even so, my physique’s like a geek

I have trouble when going to sleep

Despite counting a few thousand sheep

Ambien does do its work

Though it makes me berserk

 And they say that one’s sleep’s not so deep

Last night I tried out our iPad

Each screw-up I mumbled, “My bad!”

Google took me an hour

Then the darn thing lost power

I chucked it and thought, “Nice try, Lad” 

I am nervous getting closer to eighty

I’ve yet to see China or Haiti

Eighty seems pretty old

Life moves faster, I’m told

So we better get on with it, Matey