My Weekly Writing Challenge – For Keith

Now last week, I brought you news that I’m ending my weekly writing challenges and starting up some mini challenges with prizes (launching tomorrow!). And then I received this from the wonderful Keith Channing:

My Friday has started quite bleak,
I’m so sad I can hardly speak.
My mental molester
Is the news from Esther
That there’ll be no challenge this week.

On this day I set aside time
To fashion a lim’rick or rhyme
Few things are sweeter
Than nailing the metre,
The feeling is truly sublime.

Today, of this pleasure I’m robbed.
For once I won’t need my brow swabbed.
Instead of composing
I just sit here dozing.
My wife says she swears that I sobbed.

With no challenge to meet, I’m bereft.
My muse; she just got up and left.
Small wonder I moan
While I sit here alone
And I feel like a victim of theft.

The day after the equinox,
In a move that is unorthodox,
I’ll make my own prompt
And though I’m not swamped,
Have I opened a Pandora’s box?

So, in light of this, I think I’ll have to set Keith the odd challenge. So, if you’d like a prompt for this week, Keith, how about a limerick, or two, on the theme of dining out?



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13 Responses to My Weekly Writing Challenge – For Keith

  1. I feel honoured, Esther. Thank you.
    To be published on my blog tomorrow morning:

    We went out for lunch yesterday
    In the Auchan, up Montluçon way.
    I took my mate Marcie
    For a plate of Choux Farci.
    We don’t eat like that every day!

    In France, I thought it could be fun
    To dine in a Formula One
    We could have spaghetti
    With Mario Andretti
    Sitting out in the afternoon sun.

    Some restaurants are crazily dear;
    More than five flippin’ quid for a beer.
    It really ain’t nice
    To look at the price
    You’re likely to come over all queer

    The theme today is dining out
    And eating quite richly, no doubt.
    If you say the word ‘diet’
    They’ll think you mean ‘fry it’
    And believe me, they don’t mess about!

    The figures they give for nutrition
    Are so small that it needs an optician
    If you ask, “How much fat?”
    They’ll just call you a prat
    And treat you with utmost suspicion


  2. Sacha Black says:

    Properly Hilarious. Keith is a ledge. Curiouser and curiouser on your new iteration of the writing challenge though…

  3. Helen Jones says:

    I’m intrigued by the new competitions you have coming up, Esther, and I love Keith’s poem. You’ll definitely have to set him the odd challenge or two, or else he might pine away!

  4. Rajiv says:

    Here you go, Esther…. And, you feature in this bit of Mongrel Verse!

    The Man on The Moon went out to eat
    He went to a place and ordered some meat
    After this, he went and took his seat.
    And then on the table, he placed his feet.

    The Man on The Moon he ordered some wine,
    And said, with meat, I must drink something fine.
    To the beggars he said, the pleasure is mine
    Eating and drinking is not a big crime.

    If I can afford it, I shall bloody gorge
    If you yelp and howl, your tongues I will forge.
    Don’t look at me with eyes big and sad,
    Your fake sorrow just makes me very mad.

    I will drink my , without any haste
    And my meat? Ha! You don’t get a taste
    It is all mine, all mine you dirty rats
    I don’t care if you are eaten by the cats.

    The Old Man on the Moon ate his full,
    Until his belly felt Newton’s pull.
    ‘Tis not Esther we speak of, but of Isaac
    The gravity turned his mood very black.

    He got up to leave, but fell to his knees
    He had eaten too much, if you please.
    Then begged the beggars to help him up,
    Their grubby hands covered him with muck.

    Back on the Moon, The Old Man cried
    Earth is Hell, and I got deep fried;
    I went for meat, and some wine,
    They blackened my face and it did shine.

    The people there are so very mean,
    And I like to stay very clean.
    They beg, they stare and my plate of food,
    And they did ruin my wonderful mood.

    The Old Man of The Moon did sulk and pout,
    He shook his fist, and he did shout;
    The beggars don’t care, and they can’t hear,
    Nor see his face now filled with tears!

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