Upon hearing the next limerick, Nate scoffs and grimaces, and waves his free hand while the other downs a mug. He remarks, after his gulp, "Yegods, what a pain!"
Before he rises on the table and sings yet again:
Again, with the wives? This dwarf needs a new muse,
Something else or other that he can abuse
Something simple, you see, for his mind tries hard,
To think any thoughts past thick layers of lard
That cover his head, all the way down to his toes
And whatever else in between -- though nobody knows,
What's past the gut that hangs over his tool,
Or the flaps of his arse, all covered in stool?
Who in their right mind would bother to look
for that little worm, hung like a small hook?
Send help! Send aide! The dwarf needs arousal,
To sing any song that isn't spousal.
And we can't fault the lad for throwing his fist,
when we know that his own wife doesn't exist.
