12/08/2012 § 1 Comment
I blame my friend Dave.
A few days ago he wrote the following on Facebook:
“There was a young gymnast called Tweddle…”
Now, I recognise a gauntlet when I see one.
Those of you on Facebook will be familiar with most of the ensuing output, although there are a couple of new ones. You have my permission to skip this post.
To all the others I can only apologise.
The task of ceremonial nanny
Fell to a young shaver called Danny.
His magnificent vision
Quelled all the derision -
He can’t fail to be knighted now, can he?
A lady called Isinbayeva
Was pretty and terribly cleva.
She ran up with her pole,
Stuck it into the hole
And went upwards for eva and eva.
Last week there was terrible danger
Of four silvers for Katherine Grainger.
But she didn’t come second
And my joy was so fecund
That I cuddled a quite startled stranger.
The British ensemble equestrian
Made the others seem rather pedestrian.
They won the dressage
On an improvised plage,
Oh bugger, nothing else rhymes with equestrian.
The fine sport of bicycle racin’
Is blessed with a Great British ace ‘un
He raced the French Baugé
Who’s faster than O.J.
But failed when he had to chase Jason.
The gem known as Jessica Ennis
Excelled at all sports except tennis.
In events one to seven
She sent us to heaven
And earned herself quite a few pennies.
Exponent of long jump Greg Rutherford
Presents a real problem for the limerick-writer because nothing really rhymes with Rutherford.
But he won a gold medal
(Unlike poor Beth Tweddle)
So I felt I had to include him anyway.
When Mo Farah goes for a run
He won’t stop until he has won
He runs and he runs
And he runs and he runs.
P’raps that’s why he’s number one.
When Gatlin took drugs it was cheating,
And rendered him sprint-field-beating.
But take them away -
Well, you know what they say:
The proof of the pud’s in the eating.
Fabulous gymnast Beth Tweddle
Was an obvious choice for a limerick
But I arsed up the second line
To write a piece of free verse
I don’t know if Andrew Osagie
Says his name with a soft or a hard ‘g’.
Let’s call the whole thing off.
There are two famous sportsfolk called Trott.
One goes quickly; the other does not.
Our team would be poorer
Without lovely Laura.
She’s the youngest double-golder we’ve got.
C. Dujardin and L. Bechtolsheimer
Are a pain for the wannabe rhymer.
Are they Brit, French or German?
It’s hard to determine -
But in horse-dancing no-one’s sublimer.
There is a young boxer called Nicola -
In fights she’s a bit of a stickler.
She softens her foes
With a bop on the nose,
Then KOs them with a rib-tickler.
There once lived a couple of brothers
Who were tougher than all of the others.
They swam ran and biked
As fast as they liked
To prove they were Northers not Southers.
For pugilist Tony Ogogo
Defeat was an absolute no-no.
But oh no! The slo-mo
Shows such so-so mojo,
So now he must get up and go-go.
The kayak doyen Ed McKeever
Is a champion boat-paddle-heaver.
He won his gold medal,
Not by using a pedal,
But by twirling his oar in a fever.
Is a pentathlete, modern and mighty.
She won in a hurry
From brave Brit Sam Murray,
Thus dashing the hopes of all Blighty.