Ode to a small thing that grew in my bedroom through the volcanic process

A lim'rick's the latest thing

that I will write and sing.

Perhaps a grin

or a riotous din -

Who knows what it'll bring.

A one and two and three.

Another one-two-three.

A one and two

and one and two

and one, pause, two, pause, three.

An artist bunch were tense -

A dilemma, immense:

"We need to do

a piece, brand new.

Let's make it on nonsense!"

And so they sat to write,

a-callin' night as white.

From yawn to dusk;

from cake to rusk -

A nonsense writ, all right!

And things began to flow.

You should have seen them go.

Fact and fiction;

contradiction

mixed into the dough.

The piece began to rise

like bread before their eyes.

A bit of salt,

some candied malt,

and liquor for surprise.

The other side of town

sat many with a frown.

They made a choice

that screamed a voice

that drove a cat to drown.

But that's another tale -

another glass of ale.

The artist crew

now slowly drew

to tap the final nail.

So what was the result?

We ponder with tumult.

What did they write?

It must to light,

before we can exult.

Ah, but there's the catch.

We cannot simply snatch

an artist's due

for pieces, new.

It slowly must unlatch.

So sit with bubbly beer

or wine in crystal, clear;

await the age

when it will stage

and all shall stand and cheer.