Here are a few of my limericks — philosophical, reflective, and rude.
Jesus said, ‘You don’t need to be clever
Or learn rules and rites; just endeavour
To love God and each other,
Treat your foe as your brother,
And we’ll all live in Heaven forever.’
St Anselm said, ‘Look, we agree
God’s perfect as perfect can be.
But a thing that’s not real
Is far from ideal
So God must exist. QED.’
As he sat by the stove on his bum,
Descartes hit on a neat rule of thumb:
‘If it’s possible to doubt,
Then cast it right out.’
Which left cogito and, ergo, sum.
That Leibniz guy, he had some gonads!
He said people are windowless monads
With their future all packed in
–There’s no interacting —
We’re all just preharmonized nomads!
George Berkeley, though hardly a hippie,
Propounded a view that’s quite trippy:
The whole of creation
Is pure ideation,
And esse is simply percipi.
Immanuel said, ‘World and mind
Aren’t separate but deeply entwined.
A concept is vacant
Sans percept to take in ‘t,
And percept sans concept is blind.’
Freud said, ‘If your life is all fucked up,
It’s because your brain functioning’s mucked up
By rendering dormant
Your childhood torment.
Talk it out and you’ll soon feel quite bucked up!”
An Austrian chap called Karl Popper
Said ‘Confirming’s a bad modus oper-
-andi for science
So end your compliance
And falsify things good and proper.’
Though I’ve mapped every neuronal spike (yes!)
And read all of the relevant psych, guess
I’ll never find out
This thing they can’t doubt
The ineffable what-it-is-likeness.
David Chalmers said, ‘Folks, here’s the deal:
The world that you see and you feel —
Well, all of its its
Could be made out of bits,
But don’t be alarmed — they’re still real!
When your body’s decayed to mere bone
You’ll still live and you’ll reap what you’ve sown,
And the place where you’ll dwell
Isn’t heaven or hell
But the hearts of the people you’ve known.
An asylum’s a place where you flee
When you are not safe and not free,
Where people will care
And invite you to share,
And we all seek asylum, don’t we?
Life’s like opening a text doc in Word
Where you write everything that’s occurred
With no way to undo
A blue screen always due
And the save function off; it’s absurd.
And when you finally click “Exit”
With a surplus of words or a def’cit,
Then your friends scan the file
With a tear or a smile,
And the coroner pdfs it.
A synesthete lady called Ulla
Would classify fucks by their colour.
Her lover’s were blue
But her husband’s were very much duller.
Pompeia told hubby, ‘There’s many
Say you’re screwing that Greek girl, Parthene.’
Great Caesar replied,
‘It’s true that I tried,
But though vidi and vici non veni.’
There was a young lady called Spitz
Who used to rub Vick on her elbows
Thus, her soapy back rubs
Not only earned thanks
But relived her own asthmatic fits.
A bashful young lady of Nantes
Replied to her husband, ‘I can’t.
I know others do it
But they live to rue it;
You say what you like but I shan’t.’