Travel-time Limericks

There's was a girl from Bombay

Who gave her driver too much leeway.

She then hung onto her skirt

As he zoomed through the dirt

Still she missed her train with dismay.

There were three boys in a train,

Who were just the opposite of vain.

They jumped around harried,

With the bags they carried,

Imagining the dragons they'd slain.

Women around me are hoity,

With serious looks and bras pointy.

They sit upright,

In their lipsticks bright,

Refusing to cooperate flatly.

Ohh the sea of humanity,

Full of clusters of lies and vanity.

They're all potatoes,

Getting bitten by mosquitoes,

And living in a world of insanity.

There lived the King of India,

Who suffered a bout of diarrhoea.

No doctor he consulted,

Could find results that he wanted,

So he just looked it up on Wikipedia.

There was once a pink ballerina,

With bright blue in her retina.

She was perfection,

Down to that complexion,

But my, she laughed like a hyena.

There was a man called Moe,

Who tripped and stubbed his toe.

He jumped and he yelped,

But nobody helped

And he stood there with anger aglow.

There was once a boy from Bombay,

Who played cricket every Sunday.

But bat well he couldn't,

Bowl overarm he wouldn't,

And out he would get anyway.

There was a boy from Kandivali,

A coulple stations before Borivali.

His stomach expanded,

Several metres when counted,

And it was used to perform Kathakali.

There was once a tiny lady,

Who wore an orange saree.

She rushed into my compartment,

Looked around in bewilderment,

Then decided to take an Andheri.

There's no nicer station than Marine Lines,

A bald, blithering bloke opines.

For the vada pav there,

Will pull at your hair,

As the taste around your tongue entwines.

A scrawny man near Mahalaxmi,

Decided to cross tracks carelessly.

He answered a phone call,

As he jumped from platforms tall,

Headed toward death undoubtedly.

The lady sitting besides me,

Is colouring her eyebrows precisely.

As the train keeps moving,

Her lips she starts doing,

And makes no mistake amazingly.

Women carry makeup in their bags,

Probably to avoid time lags,

But when made up women,

Their lipstick endarken,

I just shudder and return to my mags.

There was a college-going bum,

Who hurt herself in ways ultra-dumb.

She hit her right knee,

At station Bandra-E,

And now hobbled crimson and glum.

There was a botanist from France,

Who decided to give India a glance.

He stood amidst the felling,

Then ran away yelling,

And never gave the country another chance.

To catch a rickshaw at Bandra,

Needs perseverance for a mantra.

For with lines this long,

Soon to heaven you'd belong,

Where you can listen to Frank Sinatra.

There was once a juice stall called Yaadgar,

Who's insides were shadier than a bar.

It pulled crowds in aplenty,

With falloda and rose jelly,

And was richer than hotels 5 star.

The sky is full of strange hues,

With no pinks, purples or blues.

Its palette now revised,

With colours improvised,

It's a painting with 7 hidden cues.