Joan and I have a road atlas on the kitchen table, and on slow evenings I open it anywhere and try to write a limerick about the first town my finger lands on. Most of them are impossible. That is the fun of it. Here are the ones that came out.

A man on his way to Poughkeepsie
Said, "The spelling alone makes me tipsy.
     There's a U and an O
     And a G, just for show,
And the rest of the word's only 'kipsy.'"

There once was a cook in Albuquerque
Who put chile on Thanksgiving turkey.
     When his in-laws said, "Hot!"
     He said, "Hot? This is not,"
Then he served them dessert: chile jerky.

There's a lady in Kalamazoo
Who knits sweaters for animals too.
     She has dressed up a hen,
     Two raccoons and a wren,
And she's working on something for you.

Said a man who was from Walla Walla,
"We don't like it said once. You must holler
     It twice, loud and clear,
     So the neighbors can hear,
Or you'll pay the town fine: one dollar."

Joan said, "Take me to Paris." So, quick,
I drove her to Maine. Pretty slick!
     Well, the couch in the den
     Is my bedroom again,
And her sister says, "Serves you right, Rick."

We live in Vermont, where the snow
Hangs around until May, don't you know.
     Then comes mud season, then
     Come the black flies, and when
They're all done, it's the season for snow.

Two years I've been working on Schenectady. Nothing rhymes with it. Nothing. If you've got one, send it to me and I'll put it up with your name on it and owe you a maple sugar candy.