Bear Graves

Not a Limerick, but once I composed a song that fit the pic pretty well:

Sing to the tune of The Beverly Hillbilly's Theme)

A cautionary tale about a man named Pease.
Workin' on a blend for his friend Mestophiles.
With this pact, they conjured up a bowl,
A Faustian blend to ensnare men's souls.
(Haddo's, that is. Figs and Dates, sure to pleeeease.....)

It'll be no time till Greg's a millionaire.
His minions on ASP, are sure to get 'em there.
Here's an invitation, straight to you from me,
Light up a bowl and be dammed for eternity!
(yeah, that's right, have a puff, sign the book, y'all be back, ya hear?)

Cheryl

Damm - I insist on "hearing" the music in my head when I read these - now I've been hearing that dang song off and on all day.  But them's good lyrics, Bear. Just don't do any "It's a small world" ones, OK?

Scott Hale

Oh, that's a challenge if I've ever heard one!  *G*

Bob Decker

Given the Peasean nature of this beast, I insist that it be entitled "It's a Small Tin"!

Cheryl

Bob - very apropos . . .

I KNEW I shouldn't have clicked on this msg.  It's been at least 10 yrs and now all of a sudden I can hear it, "It's a small tin after all . . ."

The Dark Lord

It's a tin of Virginia,
A tin of perique.
It's a tin of tobacco
That does not not reek.
It's tobacco you'll hoard,
It comes from the Dark Lord,
It's a small, small tin.

(Just helping Cheryl count...)

Gregory Pease

That wasn't me. It was Dark, himself. He wandered in here, late at night, with that demonic grin he is known for, reeking of gin, sulfur and brimstone. Then, sweetly, he asks, "May I use your computer, Greg? I'd like to have a gander at ASP, if you don't mind."

I was pretty busy at the time, working on some, um, experiments. "Sure, Dark. Go ahead. Just stay off the porn sites, will you? Last time I let you use it, you left all those files lying around. I was shocked next time I launched the browser."

"Oh, that. Sorry. I was just exploring. Isn't that what you're supposed to do with Explorer? Besides, I keep getting all these free offers. Had to check them out, you know. Nothing is free, or so they tell me."

The irony of him telling me that nothing is free didn't escape my scrutiny, but I didn't know what he had up his sleeve tonight.

About ten minutes later, I could hear that damnable song in my head. Dark was whistling it. He's actually quite a talented whistler, even better than Slim Whitman. (I asked him about this, once. "Where do you think Slim learned it?" The guy's a crack up sometimes.)

He re-lit the pilot light in the furnace for me, and left me to my work. But the song. The damned song. It kept playing and playing in my head. "It's a small tin, after all." I couldn't stop it.

Just when I was at the brink of madness, Nizo flew in with a copy of "The Godfather" on DVD, and we shared a bowl, and watched a classic flick. Fortunately, the theme song was able to replace the Small World ditty pretty quickly, and Nizo's impression of Pacino was hysterical. I couldn't laugh too hard, though. Tullio was coming up the stairs, and the last thing I wanted was a fork in my cheek. That Tullio. What a card.

So, things were going along pretty well. The Godfather theme is not so obnoxious as "It's a Small Tin," so the endless repeating in my skull was somewhat tolerable. (Much better than the theme from "March on the River Kwai.")

But, there's no rest for the wicked, or something like that. I tune in to ASP, just to check things out. Here's a bunch of silliness about Tinsky. I try not to let things like this get to me, but Mark is, after all, the best pipe maker I know under 5' tall, and I really hate to see him picked on. But, then, BAM! The Small Tin song shows up in the thread. This stunk of Dark's handywork and peculiar sense of humour. (Ever see Bedazzled? Peter Cook was ALMOST convincing. If only he'd known.) I searched for his posts. I found the particularly tormenting bomb he lobbed at Cheryl.

Cheryl, I hope the file I sent you helped, and that you managed to get out of the asylum unscathed. I'm really sorry. I'll have words with him when I see him next. Of course, he'll probably find it funny. But, really, it wasn't me.

"As you rock to and fro,
Through the gates you will go.
It's a small, small tin."

I'll write when I return. I'm hoping the little marks from the electroconvulsive treatments will be gone in time for the Chicago show. If I'm wearing a hat, please have pity on me; put a little tobacco in my tin cup, and tell me it will all be okay.
 

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