Let me proclaim as loudly and widely as I can, that the Limerick I know is a place of great beauty and joie de vivre. It is manifestly not a place of violence, though one must admit, for the sake of truth, that it is not entirely peaceful. Nor is it obsessed with sport, least of all rugby football. But sport is its main activity, its justification, its entire raison d'etre.

It is not ashamed of its faults. For instance, it boasts no grand architecture; its structure is simplicity itself; its lines short and bold. It boasts no riches; in fact its very poverty is its greatest treasure. It is lean and vigorous and full of fire. It surprises, it enchants, it praises, it mocks. There you will find no Angela's Ashes, wracked with religious guilt, oppressed by the Catholic Church, ashamed of its poverty. Yet, I would guess that it boasts a greater number of clergy among its numbers than many a larger metropolis. For that is what I call it: capital of the whole world, wherein is all human life, from every continent, along with all its fun and foibles, wants and weaknesses.

Walk its avenues and squares, and you will find no sectarianism, though its people are equally critical of every place, race, person, creed, and presumption. It has no time for timid political correctness, but stands for equality of political incorrectness, and exposes humbug no matter from which quarter.

Let it speak for itself.

The Limerick

The limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
Seldom are clean,
And the clean ones seldom are comical.

It needn't have ribaldry's taint
Or strive to make everyone faint;
There's a type that's demure
And perfectly pure
Though it helps quite a lot if it ain't.

The limerick is furtive and mean;
You must keep her in close quarantine,
Or she sneaks to the slums
And promptly becomes
Disorderly, drunk, and obscene.

The ultra-fastidious, if there are any of those left, should stop reading this thread right here, or, like Phidias, they may find material which will startle them:

There once was a sculptor named Phidias
Whose manners in art were invidious:
He carved Aphrodite
Without any nightie,
Which startled the ultra-fastidious.

Note to Ger:

You may as well open a new section in your "A little bit of culture...  page. You might entitle it "Limericks", as the authors are usually (though not invariably) unknown.

Anon., Idem, Ibid., and Trad.,
Wrote much that is morally bad:
Some ballads, some chanties,
All poems on panties -
And limericks too, one must add.