At the malt shop I tend to be picky.
The egg cream and frappe I find icky.
There's one I like better:
That cold whistle-wetter,
The tangy, ice-clanging lime rickey!
Lime rickeys are self-conscious, maverick limericks. They make good palate-cleansers, especially after too many servings of prose.
Last seen, he was sporting a fez,
A moustache, a pair of pinces-nez,
A badminton racquet,
Maroon smoking jacket,
And a silver dispenser of Pez.
I should be confronting my issues,
Not scribbling verses on tissues.
But a rhyme might appear,
So great that Ed Lear
Would rather fill my shoes than his shoes!