If All Poems Were Limericks: “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A man shot a bird on a boat,
Then helplessly drifted afloat
Until he learned mercy,
But he’d earned this curse–he
Must keep on repeating, by rote:

“A man shot a bird on a boat,
Then…

The Ancient Mariner Calls the Poetry Crisis Line.

COUNSELOR     Poetry Crisis Line. What is your emergency?

CALLER:      Water…

COUNSELOR:      Are you thirsty, sir?

CALLER:      …water…everywhere…

COUNSELOR:      Are you on land? Is there a risk of drowning?

CALLER:      …and all the boards…

COUNSELOR:      I’m confused. There’s water on your floorboards?

CALLER:     …did shrink.

COUNSELOR:      I’m not a shrink. I’m working on my MFA.

CALLER:     Water…

COUNSELOR:      So you ARE thirsty?

CALLER:    …water everywhere…

COUNSELOR:      Oh, right. Haven’t we been over this?

CALLER:     …nor any drop to drink.

COUNSELOR:      Sir, I think you’ve had enough to drink already.