Billy Blue Voice–A Pair of Limericks

Billy Blue Voice was up to no good

Robbing and singing out in the woods.

But he wasn’t that smart,

So just for a lark,

His victims had shut him up good.


His mouth was sewn shut with a string

But man, could that boy ever sing.

So he’d drum with his toes,

And hum through his nose.

So they up and made him their king.


A limerick is a five-line poem where the first, second, and fifth lines are long and the third and fourth lines are short. There seems to be quite a lot of variation between the examples of limericks that I have seen. But the long lines tend to be eight, nine, or ten syllables in length, and the short lines tend to be five, six, or seven syllables in length. Typically, the three long lines rhyme with each other and the two short lines rhyme with each other. But the rhyme scheme is subject to change on the whim of the poet. Limericks are often humorous poems consisting of a single stanza. However, they don’t have to be funny, and limericks can be linked together in multiple stanzas to form a longer poem. If you want to learn more about limericks or any other poetry term, you can check out the Glossary of Poetic Terms at Poetry Foundation here:

The “Why I Can’t Write the Blues” Blues.

It takes a special kind of person to write the blues.


They can feel it when they wake up in the morning.

The bunions they will have from walking in their shoes.

They couldn’t sleep the night with their wife up snoring.

They are often times more than half hung over, too.


It takes a special kind of person to sing the blues.


Their job is on the line, and it has taken their health.

Their dog was killed last night like an old country song.

Their wife is on their mind, and she has taken their wealth.

Their sorrow’s burning bright, and you all sing along.


It takes a special kind of person to play the blues.


Their fingers are curled from long days and guitar strings.

Their backs are broken from toting their own stage gear.

Their voices are gnarled from the wailing notes they sing.

They only earn a token playing their pain for beer.


It takes a special kind of person to write the blues.


I’m always bright and bushy tailed in the morning.

I typically don’t need to walk a hole in my shoes.

My words almost always leave the people snoring.

And I seldom ever drink more than one or two.


If you’re still reading this, that’s why I can’t write the blues.

And if you’re still reading this, you can’t write the blues, too.

2012 Short Fiction: The Maharaja


She smelled of tone wood and instrument polish, but to me the smell was seraphim. She was beautiful, slick, and clean. She sang out uncertain at first; gradually, she came up to pitch. She repeated this warm-up exercise moving from low to high. First, she sang an E, then an A, and a D; next, she sang a G, then a B, and another E. Now that her throat was clear, she was ready to perform. To me, her song was ancient and sacred. It was the sound of an Angle’s harp ringing up to heaven. I played accompaniment with a purpose that was not my own. I felt otherworldly and possessed with the righteousness of god. I was swimming in the sound, and I knew I was in love. This was not the first time I had fallen so deeply and quickly in love, nor do I expect it to be my last. I go through this same experience every time I buy a new guitar. I fall deeply and madly in love; I take every chance I can to stroke and caress my new lover until the new guitar smell is gone. Then I will change her strings and rub her down with instrument polish. However, she will eventually take her place within my harem of guitars, and my roving eye will be on the lookout for my next love.