Clement grew potent, got caught in the moment.
He swelled out his monument—started to foment—
As Ms. Clement donned an erotical garment.
He: “Quotients of marriage are my just emolument.
“My seeds need to vomit a certain emollient.”
She: “Don’t froth so, dear—for me it’s a condiment.”
Hankered after spirits Scotchy.
(Barring that, some Nippon sake).
Sunday! Closed! He knew a gaucho,
Macho, Sunday-selling nachos.
Fibonacci’s macho gaucho nachos.
The lissome composer, Franz Liszt,
Was affected by labial lisps.
Proved the right remedies
To render Liszt’s lisp to a wisp.
Henry 8’s wife was lawn bowling.
Henry Percy saw, eyes rolling.
“Did he see more?” asked Jane Seymour.
“You may lose your head, Boleyn!”
A question that’s novelly dry, sir:
Is the “s” to be soft in T. Dreiser?
Or should it be “z”?
Conundrum to me
That spurs me to drink down Budweiser.
Liked to tease.
Crept upon Diogenes.
“Cynic! Down! Upon thy knees!
“Douse thy lantern, for thou sees
“An honest man, I, Socrates.”
Probability master, Pascal,
Calculated a pass at a gal.
“I’ve got a queer grin.
“The odds are thus thin.
“I’ve a better chance with a gay pal.”