The Clan Lord Sentinel

Killing Sylvans?! Now really! For shame!
My goal is to put off their game.
To accomplish that part
I don't aim for the heart
Their backside's more likely my aim!

Ole Odes, a feline of class,
Had a house that was walled all in glass.
He chucked stones at our fun,
'Cause we all loved the pun,
So we chucked stones right back at his buns.

O, Sareth, that was a mean nick,
You've cut me close to the quick!
Saying I live in glass,
And am quite a jackass,
While proving yourself quite the snert!

Sareth and Ode dueled dismayed
Their weapons were lickericks brayed
Their rhymes were so tough
People had enough
Would they be quiet if we had them both spayed?

A war, it seems we have had,
Here on the Limerik pad,
We've postured and posed,
We've puned (but not prosed),
And it seems that we've made someone mad...

His indignation upwardly welling
Mjollnir started upon yelling
I just can't see
How it could be me
Mayhap it is Sareth's mispellings?

A sylvan so utterly dim.
threw a lymerick in on a whim.
But to his dispair.
Sareth's temper did flair.
And both duelers turned round upon him.

Now a three way thread brawl did commence
After Mjollnir did cause some offence.
All three evenly matched.
What plans soon would be hatched?
Who will win? That's the joy of suspence.

Shut up fools, shut up, fools, shut up.
You've filled this annoying cup
with lyric so vile,
and so without style
that we upchuck your prose as we sup.

Entering the Mirror, men still strive,
To get to the Cloud to drive
But, the women scream with conviction,
"Men, just ask directions!"
Frustrated, the men just skydive.

An affront to good prose Zen believes.
are limericks one of his peeves?
He raved and he ranted
he muttered and chanted
Till we gave him some buckled up sleeves.

So our rhymes doth offend to Zen's nose,
They stink; Well I guess that's how it goes.
Yet his crediblity's hit -
That big hypocrite -
'Cause he sure didn't complain here in prose.

Poor, Zen, I must send regret,
But look what complaints do beget.
You've churned up some ire,
And now we breath fire,
But you've spawned the most limericks yet!

Skiri's right, Zen, stick more to prose
Your rhythm and rhyme are morose
Quick! Get him a bucket
Before he upchucks it!
But that's dinner for zos, I suppose.

Its a shame that the Orgas can't hear
The rhymes that now ring in mine ear
For then the army that Pengy may raise,
When Sareth and Ode do make phrase,
Would turn back 'fore they ever got near!

And here is a littel rythmic advice from an old friend of Sareth's early years. I wonder if he will know who contributed?


From a good friend who knows Sareth well
and has lived in his limerick hell *
He'll never stop punning
so you'd better start running
to escape from the words he can't spell