Victorian limericks

Here's how I while away my listless afternoons. I've composed twelve, but no doubt there'll be more as the names of nineteenth-century authors pop into my head. Co-author'd with the delectable Ms Rachel Adcock, who knows a good poem when she sees one.

There once was a fellow named Hardy
Who ordered a triple Bacardi.
He knocked it right back,
Got as drunk as a sack,
And arrived home that night rather tardy.

There once was a writer named Thackeray
Who ordered a raspberry daiquiri.

The lime made him smart
(For it was rather tart)
And his face ended up somewhat lacquery.

There once was a fellow named Trollope
Who gave his old Dickens a whallop.
One day it fell off
And now, if he cough,
His semen comes out in a dollop.

There once was a fellow named Tennyson
Who liked to canoodle with anyone.
He’d had Arthur Clough
Below and above
The table he kept his old pennies on.

There once was a woman named Gaskell
Whose dislike of Ian McGaskill
Reached the end of its tether
When he read out the weather
And she called him a right little rascal.

There once was a poet named Browning
Whose wife was perpetually frowning.He bought her a clean
And new trampoline
And now she is upping and downing.

There once was a fellow named Dickens
Who kept some remarkable chickens.
The size of his cock
Did come as a shock
To his wife when she gave it a lickins.

There was a young writer named Wilde
Who was very unique as a child.
While the kiddies played Catch
From a window he’d watch
And dream of them being defiled.

There was a young writer named Poe
Whose penis was ever on show.
When asked, ‘Why’s it buzzin’?’
He’d answer, ‘My cousin,’
Or, ‘Wouldn’t you just like to know?’

A young man they called Conan Doyle
Was always found covered in oil.
When old Joseph Bell
Once exclaimed, ‘What the hell…?’
He replied, ‘Let me come to the boil.’

There was a strange writer named Swinburne
Whose shaving technique made his chin burn.
When he once grew a beard
All his family jeered,
And he went off and shagged his new in-turn.

There was a young writer named Wells
Whose clothing was full of strange smells.
When writing his sci-fi
He kept his old tie dry
By shouting, ‘Get drier, or else!’

If you like that sort of thing, then check out W. H. Auden's 'Academic Graffiti'. Simultaneously cultured and silly, pointless and pleasing, they always make me chuckle. But then maybe that's just me...