There once lived a poet named George
near the Falls of Carnarvon Gorge.
He ran out of ideas
and to us it appears
that he secretly started to forge.

So he copied from Chaucer and Suess
which of course was a blatant abuse.
When he went to the printer
in the middle of winter
he'd manufactured his noose.

In the bookstore he sat, smugly signing,
many copies, the people were lining
all the streets from the park
until way after dark,
with the moon and the streetlights shining.

At the stroke of the midnight hour
from the clock of the old Limerick Tower
through the door wandered Suess
with an ancient recluse
and for George the whole world went sour.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/friday-is-limerick-day/