Boarding Call at 5:42
The seatbelt sign stays yellow too long flickers like a dying street lamp song I tap my knee in a rehearsed refrain counting the tiles up and down the pane while the jetway hums its anxious drone
Limerick Generator
Generate an original limerick in seconds. Five lines rhyming AABBA with the joke in the last one.
Everything it writes is original. It will not reproduce an existing poem.
The shape of a limerick
Five lines rhyming AABBA. Lines one, two and five are longer and carry three stresses each. Lines three and four are shorter with two. The rhythm bounces, and getting it wrong is audible immediately even to somebody who could not name the metre.
Line one almost always introduces a person and a place, and the place is usually what the whole rhyme scheme is built on, which is why so many limericks begin with a town nobody has heard of.
The last line is the joke
Everything before line five is setup. A limerick with four excellent lines and a flat fifth has failed, and a limerick with four ordinary lines and a good fifth has not.
That means writing backwards is often easier. Find the punchline, then build the rhyme that has to arrive at it.
Absurdity is the register
Limericks do not do understatement. The form is broad, silly and slightly unhinged, and a limerick that tries to be subtle usually just reads as a poem that failed to be funny.
This generator keeps them clean unless you ask otherwise, which is worth knowing given the form's reputation.
30 example limericks
Each of these was written by this generator and kept. Anything that broke the form was discarded rather than shown.
Telephone Ketchup
Hand still greasy from the chips I bought at the station you talk me through vinegar and sugar the way you stir the pan like you’re still here testing the gloss on the back of a spoon while the tomatoes hiss on the stove
The Things We Keep
the shovel hangs on a rusted nail like a question I never should’ve asked dust in the cracks like a debt I can’t pay the lawnmower wheels won’t turn the same way and I left the good years behind last autumn
Sparks in the Dark
The night the power went out, we gathered round Candles lit, our faces aglow, a warm and golden sound The stars shone bright through the skylight above A celestial show, a labor of love And in the darkness, our hearts found a way to shine through
The Seat We Did Not Share
my hands are folded on the napkin-white cloth the cake is cut but it tastes like salt I watch the couple first slow, then fast their shoes scuff the dance floor’s polish lost and I am the aisle they didn’t walk
The Dog at the Window
He’s gray now where the black used to lie, three good legs left, the fourth a sigh. The bowl stays full past evening’s glow— just ice now in the bowl below since nobody ever comes by.
Change in the Sugar Bowl
wooden table glows under the kitchen light pennies rustle like dry leaves in a light wind old sugar bowl holds more than sweetness now a dime, a quarter, one thin silver chain I roll it all up in a napkin corner
The Phone That Never Rings
The voicemail light blinks like a dead thing. They swear they called somewhere down the line. I’m still waiting.
First Cold
The porch rail’s iron ate my breath. The streetlamps dripped their hollow yellow. I counted steps I’d never walk again— a count I knew by heart, one by one. The wind picked up the sound of winter.
Seasonal Drift
I took the job at the waterfront store thinking it would fill a summer's score of empty days and nights with nothing but pale lights now autumn's come and I'm still here
Seventeen Candles Left
cornflakes still in the bowl keys gummed with last night's keys your note says we'll always be older than the ache in our thighs but today, the world's my size
First Light in a Sold House
the morning sun through curtains pasted thin finds dust that hangs where her perfume had been a mug half-full of coffee gone cold the key still hangs where the landlord’s hand told its next guests our afternoons spent within
Packing the Wrong Keys
The boxes wait by the door like bad guests, tape flapping loose as a beaten tongue. I keep finding plates I bought because the walls were light and thought they’d match some future sun. The kettle’s still here, still too white— it never boiled right, never fit my tea. The landlord’s note lies on the floor, his handwriting polite as a noose. I’ll miss the radiator’s hum, maybe.
The Receipt in the Pocket
the label still crisp the pockets holding dust of laundromats and buses three months old coffee stains the cashier's name, still faint the coat remembers smells of last winter's rain the receipt remembers change a coffee, a bus ride left behind like yesterday
The Argument Over Milk
the carton hissed its final breath I said you left it out again the sour pooled across the floor you called me the unreasonable one we stared at curdled fate
First Cut
My wallet's been a barren land Waiting for the seeds to take stand Fresh as morning dew Opportunities anew Now my first paycheque's in my hand
Cleaning the Register
the scent of old coffee lingers past its time the floorboards groan like they’ll never shine again one quiet afternoon last receipt folds in my hand the old key turns heavy in the lock
Twenty Years of Hindsight
I find their yearbook photos pressed flat as pressed pennies under the milk crate turned table. Mom’s hair is a blond helmet, Dad’s a million tiny curls. They’re still young in the photograph— but the dates on the back read 1982. I hold the evidence like a spelling mistake in a library book: someone left it here for anyone to see. The house smells like burnt toast. I should put these pages back, but instead I leave them splayed across the kitchen counter. Somewhere a clock ticks. I am three rooms away from being the parent of a child who will someday hold my face in the same way.
Good Riddance
the coffee’s cold but the day’s still young the mailman paused, just to say it’s done we danced a jig where the sidewalk cracked now the streetlights blink and wonder why we’re back turns out the year was more friend than foe
The 8:07 to Nowhere
I watched the steam curl like a finger waving good-bye from the platform’s rim. Tickets clutched tight in my pocket— a cruel joke written in ink. I smiled up at the empty station clock.
Where the Water Ran Deep
the creek was wide where the willows grew bent low over water the color of pewter I stood shaking on the bank in my sneakers missing one dared myself to step in the current took the fear right from my bones
Empty Spaces
The old porch creaks with unfamiliar feet Summer nights that once were mine to keep Silence where my laughter used to ring Empty rooms that echo with nothing Now a stranger's life is where I used to sleep
Moonlight on the Playground
headlights carve the wet asphalt black peeling stickers peel back from the wall a swing still dangling in the breeze its chains hum a quiet melody the slides glint silver under the moon
The Way the Light Bends
maple leaves still cling slow as a held breath the red bus idles long past the corner light my shadow stretches thin the fourth grade yard still has its slide my little hands leave rust on chrome I wonder if it's still there
The Benchwarmer's Coach
coffee steam curls on the gym floor at dawn his whistle like a bird that won’t be gone he called my name when no one did pressed me through the sweat and lid now the trophy sits on his shelf, half-won
Missed
The phone rings once—soft, then stops. Three-month-old voicemail drops. Your voice, a paper boat left to drift in the dark, still there when I float back.
No Reply
The bridge was dark, the text still blue. I counted calls you never knew. You walked away like Sunday rain but left me standing in its stain— now I’m the one who stops the news.
Empty Spaces
The house is still, a hollowed shell of laughter and of tears Where footsteps echoed, now a silence that brings calm and clears The remnants of a gathering, a fleeting sense of delight A solo chair, a single glass, a tablecloth that's still so bright In this quiet, I find solace, a sense of peace that slowly appears
The Quiet Between
The fence stays the height of my shoulders, one maple seed, two, hits my drive. I know the hour by the way the sun warms the one loose shingle but never have called his name.
The Last Mile
odometer clicked past the hundred-fifty mark radio died at Exit 9 exhaust hissed like a punctured old balloon steering shivered when I let go I walked the rest in my fifteen-dollar shoes
Questions
Is this limerick generator free?
Yes. Most requests are answered from a library written in advance, so serving a page costs nothing to run.
What is the rhyme scheme?
AABBA. Lines one, two and five rhyme with each other; lines three and four rhyme with each other and are shorter.
Are they clean?
By default, yes. The form has a reputation but this one stays clean unless you turn on the explicit option.
Can I choose the subject?
Yes. A person and a place gives it the most to work with, since that is how the form usually opens.