Diabetes limericks

@tim Perhaps a new Video Blog episode??

In order to stay diabeteless,
You should keep your urine melitless.
Shoot up day and night,
Give your test strips a sight
Or your frame will too soon become meatless.

If you wanted the idealised quantus
Of your long-acting insulin Lantus:
Hop onto the scale,
Take note of its tale
And quarter it all for your wantus.*

*when reading aloud, pronounce -us as a lingering snaily -sss

In Tim’s fridge, a bottle of onions
Sets Annette a-drool into dustbins.
Don’t let her shoot up
With her spirited pump:
Those sour bulbs cause gastric oblivions!

A Type 2 diabetic called Terry
Even though hearthrugged & hairy,
With no hair on his top
His doses won’t stop
Going up without end…it is scary. ;-O

@ckoei – Pmsl! I love it!

A South African girl named Cecile
Put out a global appeal,
She just wanted to wheedle
An insulin needle,
That when stuck in she just wouldn’t feel.

There once was a lad from Dundee
Who used MDI therapy
For a pump he did ask
Put his nurse to the task
But she just said ‘We’ll just wait and see…’

‘We’ll put your name down on the list.’
At this our young lad did get pissed.
So he wrote loads of letters
To his elders and betters
But he might just as well have knit mist.

So he waited, ’till cometh the day
When the call came ‘We’re happy to say’
Come November you’ll get
What you haven’t had yet
You pump finally is on its way!’

Said a young lass from Indian Queens
Diagnosed in her quite early teens
‘On the bright side at least
I can legally feast
During schooltime on green jelly beans!’

Once a jab, then a pen, now a pump
Once a pee test, now bloods – what a jump!
But advances aside
Highs and lows, far and wide
Bring us all down to earth with a bump!

A lady shot up in her bosom,
As her lap was beset by a possum:
“It is always the best
To pin corsage to chest,
Or how else could you see that I blossom?”

Lol! These are great! Love ’em

Just wish I had some skill with words :S

You really need little Apidra
If you’re set on devouring a hydra.
The same doesn’t go
For a bundle of dough –
Else your pee will be yum for Candida.

The black Accu-Chek Compact Plus
Is almost as big as a bus,
But it still sucks your blood,
N’ gives the figures it should
So I don’t see why @Tim makes a fuss.

Hyperglycaemia’s a bitch,
Left too long it gives you the itch,
Being hypo is worse
It’s a terrible curse,
‘Coz you just might wake up in a ditch.

@teloz Love the last one Terry!!

If a needle snaps off in your skin,
Just take a huge swig of gin.
No need for a squeeze
Or a pinch and a tweeze…
There’ll be space in that overfull bin.

When your pancreas packs up it’s true
Diabetes comes out of the blue.
So it’s not such a sin
Putting insulin in,
For a pump though, you just have to queue.

I’m fed up of needles and pins,
Of blood tests and big yellow bins,
But it really don’t matter
I’ve got even fatter,
And I’m still a T2 for me sins!

I thought that the last Shoot Up poll
Was quaint and a little bit droll
But the answer to choose
Was to top all T2s
Now I daren’t even go for a stroll.

Wow these are great but I’m rather impressed with @Teloz these last few are brilliant!

@teloz: Can’t say I pissed myself, ’cause I have aged parent’s TENAs at my disposal, but I’m still laughing (while also vomiting – I’m on hypo-heave sick leave, but go, go Collinguam!)

The USB Contour of Baery:
A processes-itself little dairy –
With its rennety ilk
All your blood glucose milk
Is transformed into cheese (and some sherry).

Poor @ckoei is not very well
She’s heaving her lungs up as well.
Add the sad fact
her urinary tract
Is leaking, but no one can tell.

Thanks everyone, but when you’re on a roll you just have to go with it! You may have noticed that I love limericks, but it’s hard to keep up with you @ckoei, you crack me up!

All diabetic fairies and gnomes
Have lots of posh kit in their homes,
With meters and pumps
And garish sharps dumps,
Plus instructions that come in big tomes.

When you’re low, with your head in the loo;
Heaving up pint glasses of bitterish goo,
You’re still writing prosy
Second-rate bits of poesy
All because of that lurking and leering Type Two…

While poor @ckoei is barfing her beer
I find it incredibly queer
That she still has the means
To write limericks in reams
‘Cos she thinks that I’m having a leer.

Us gnomes are much nicer than that
Her back needs a rub and a pat.
I’d help out if I could,
As anyone would,
But sadly I’m not where she’s at.

Hmmmm… drifting off topic a bit now, but sod it, I’m having fun! My apologies to the Lord and Lady of the Blog.

If it wasn’t for @Alison and @Tim
I’d be out of this mess that I’m in.
Driven by need
To pen limerick screed
With rhymes that at times are too thin.

While the tagline of Shoot-Up is droll
Making humourless masses recoil
@teloz gives wit
@ckoei ‘s rhymes often fit
So the rest of us can only LOL.

@annette: LOL (again)

If diabetes brings blackest despair,
Limerickan salvation is here:
After green jelly Queens
And Indian beans,
A barfing bonanza will bring up some cheer

Limericks might have some other medical significance: while lowing about quite a lot these last few days, I’ve noticed that when I’m going down, it becomes increasingly difficult to read the limericks rhythmically “right” (especially the lady with the bosom…) So if you don’t have CGM, keep these babies close at hand. And for hypers, you’ll have to start writing haikus )

@teloz: What happened to “the dog’s danglies”? It still appears in “Activity”, but here on home ground, you seemed to have spayed it

As the world becomes misty and my magnifier seems cracked,
Say salvete to “oxidation” and “binocular cataract”:
They’ll suck it all out
With a vacuuming snout,
Then shove in some plastic…argh, my chin hairs are stacked!!!

Should they tickle my toes with a feather,
I’ll “moo!” and pull at my tether…
But the tuning fork’s ping
Makes nothing go zing –
So below I have ticklish & tone-deaf leather.

@ckoei – I don’t know what happened, I did delete one of my less salubrious efforts, but I didn’t mean to castrate the dog. He’s now fully recovered!

An insulin pump is the best,
The bugger is never at rest.
With pretties and spanglies
It’s just the dog’s danglies
But of course, you still have to test.

I’ve a hole in my finger again
And if I’ve got one I’ve got ten.
Leaking blood by the litre
To feed that damned meter,
It gets very wearing y’ken!

@teloz: Oops, my bud-nipping terminology is a bit muddled…but with dog dangling along so merrily again, I hope that the bitch (called hyperglycaemia) is castrated!

A sexy young diabetic nurse
Said, “I know that testing’s a curse,”
But if you don’t test,
Your heart will arrest
And your last ride will be in a hearse!

Metformin and Gliclazide
Are distributed far and wide,
To curb the blood glucose,
And systemic sucrose,
Of T2s on a slow downward slide.

Please, can I stop now? My brain is inundated by limericks, it’s all your fault @Tim!

Count Dracula* counts carbs
When sinking his barbs
Into that sweet, sickly treat
Which is diabetic meat…
Until a week passes, and he’s discarded as sharps.

*CGM

My genial goblin called Haem
Is always denied a sweet dream
By that bent upon jinn,
Penny Insulin,
And her short & long-acting scheme.

Ghaaaaaa! I’m sorry, I can’t help it!

The neuropathy don’t really hurt
Or the drops of blood on my shirt
It’s the fact that my willy
Is now very silly,
It needs Cialis pills to get pert!

Talking of pricks,
I use* Multiclix:
Just a roll of its barrel
And the old ones skedaddle;
With settings for deep or the slightest of snicks.

*Where “use” doesn’t imply self-gratification, though all of Accu-Chek’s repertoire resemble hobbit-dildos. My current favourite (as far as suggestive shape goes), is Bayer’s Ascencia Microlet – it looks like something you could shave your legs with, one hair at a time

You ladies just don’t know the half
Erectile dysfunction’s no laugh
In moments of passion
Dipping into one’s ration
Of pills that help stiffen the staff

@Tim – Well… sadly, it is diabetes related, diabetic neuropathy can be very cruel, and if my lewd little limericks can forewarn the younger men of the perils of poor control it would make me very happy. Let’s be honest, they’re only a tingey-whingey bit ribald.

Now… can I find two words to rhyme with neuropathy…

Retinopathy?
Homeopathy?
Allopathy?
(And one maybe just made for @teloz) Erotopathy

Bureaucracy? (As uttered by a Discworldian Igor…and have your brolly at the ready )

When foot nerves to death go a-scurry
It feels like your foot’s full of curry.
But imipramine
Will soothingly clean
All feeling of fire in a hurry*.

*Make that about 3 weeks. A few months later, the affected neurons will be as dead as doornails and as @teloz says, “neuropathy don’t really hurt”…but it does kill the albatross!

A diabetic henswain called @charlie*
Was sipping on Coke and malted barley
When the size of her dram
Made the boat capsize: “Damn!
I should have one for weather and for lee.”

*Shoot Up’s Middle(1/2 an Ancient @teloz) Aged Mariner, showing us the importance of being well balanced

“Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.”
(The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

Damn that albatross; I can stand the smell, but the maggots drive me crazy!

It is an ancient diabetic
And he stoppeth one in three
‘By thy cold grey toes and failing eyes,
Have you a pump for me?’

The doctor’s doors are opened wide
He is the next one in,
So down he sits, and then lets rip,
Give me some insulin!

My Autoimmune-Team’s Mr. Ts
Became mean to my pancreatic Bs:
They were smashed & bashed
And phagocytically stashed;
For their graves, I got pots of sweet Ps.

Toes that are lost to gangrene
Are the nastiest thing that I’ve seen,
But reduction in heat
Kills the fungus on feet,
So not all news is bad it would seem.

@teloz: Re “reduction in heat”,

If a bride/groom’s feet has to be cold
To keep all those microbes on hold,
Diabetics can’t marry,
In limbo they’ll tarry,
Or give up a limb if they fold?

(or they can wash their feet in a lukewarm & weak saline solution to bugger up infective single cells’ osmotic balance…and live happily&cosy-toed ever after )

There was a diabetic named Tim
Whose view of pump funding was dim
They told him to wait
His health left to fate
But at least he’s got a cannula in!

“As big as an egg” is the carby portion
Long held as standard when stuffing starch in:
But would this ovum be able to fit
In the egg-pipe of ostrich or that of a tit…
Or is it pushed out by some chicken contortion?

The stuff that we now use to bolus
Is rather inclined to go solus.
Where the oldies ring-a-rosied,
The new ‘uns won’t be posied:
They tiff and rush off to where a hole* is.

*insulin receptor

Lingering Lantus piles into a scrum
That loosens up daylong, to ruck, then to crumb;
While the Levemir-bantling is best tucked away
In the bosom of Al* for its 12-hourly stay…
Though both “rugby” & “baby” are a pain** in the bum.

*Albumin
**Especially if injected straight from fridge

At dawn, glycaemic doors are thrown ajar –
Out gallops enough glucose to make a Mars Bar.
To herd it all in
To pastures of green,
You’ll need an insulin whip (and sugar lumps, if you go too far).

While watching the telly, and there’s two Doctors Whos –
After not necessarily drinking litres of booze,
One might rightly presume
Without pricking a thumb,
That one’s sweetness is TARDISing towards temperate twos…

If you yearn for an insulin Sten
That resembles a transvestite peahen,
Just nab a few feathers
And glue them to leathers
With which to dress up your old Autopen.

When you pump, you’re bound to get you tubed
While asleep and your neck becomes belooped:
To get out of that spot
Of Gordian knot,
Use a sword, but beware of having head cubed!

There was a young woman with high
Blood sugars, and so she would die
But with Medical Support
And DAFNE self taught
She might diabetes defy!!

Shoot Up’s sottish, head snorting swign
Plans to use us to buy Scottish whine!
Please cook up his trotters
With fried green tomotters,
‘Cause choccies&cheese are much more divyne…

There was a young lady, Cecile,
Who carb counted before every meal
Despite insulin flowing
She knew where her blood sugars were going
Thanks to Tim, and his ContourUSB deal!!

Shoot Up’s a wonderful blog
It tries to cut through the fog;
It has members who’re numerous,
Articles that are humorous,
And a mod who’s a diabetic dog.

A self-suckling*, parched diabetic
Can be salted and dished up as fesikh:
When ground to a paste,
What glorious taste
Is that sweet-saline, sure-fire emetic**!

*All those fingertipsy bloodhounds among us
**Guaranteed to get rid of sugar (and everything else)

The pancreatic god SusAnthony*
Got split into 2 below the knee:
While Su sugars on,
Ant’s footing has gone,
So it’s better to worship our BrownFinney.

*For the sake of Calvinistic monotheism & limerickan rhythm, Susan (Sugar upping sauce after nilpermouth/glucagon) and Anthony (Anti-honey/insulin) had to be fused… and stuff somatostatin!

A giraffe gave a covetous sigh,
’cause its blood glucose was always high:
“Being a gnome
(or a miniature poem),
You’ll be low even if you eat pie*…”

*specifically, apple turnovers

Wow, I am in awe of so many literary masterpieces. It seems that all the energy saved by not producing any insulin has been diverted to the creative genius part of your brains. I never dreamt you could shoehorn diabetes into quite so many limericks!

@alison: You still owe us at least 27 – all Shoot Up members are obliged to write as many limericks/haiku(s) as years since they’ve been diagnosed (and those who’ve had it for less than 20 yrs are bound by their genetic propensity to go back to their conception…so one poem will only have to be 9/12 or 3/4 of a full one )

@ckoei So not only do I have to have an annual eye/foot/kidney/blood pressure/everything else check, I now need to add limerick composition to the list? These diabetes complications are getting out of control!

@alison: If you want to complain, do it in rhyme (AABBA). And to placate Shoot Up’s bisexual pancreatic god(s) Susan & Anthony/BrownFinney, your (and everyone else’s) tally has just gone up to 32 (after adding Tim’s few drops)…she she she, thank goodness I’ve got limerickpathy

I thought having diabetes wasn’t too bad
Until @ckoei made me so sad
If bad eyes and kidneys weren’t complications enough
I now find there’s even more stuff
Like writing enough damn limericks to drive you mad

Hurrah! She’s off! (you’ll have to bash your own bow with a champagne bottle)…31 to go – and no one’s yet mentioned Fruit Pastilles (or the dangers of Chinese dumplings)

Some say that Rowntrees Fruit Pastilles
Are the cure to all of life’s ills
When your brain’s full of typos
And you know that you’re hypo
It’s time to reach for those sugar-rush pills

Okay, it’s not a limerick, but…
ODE TO A NEWLY DIAGNOSED DIABETIC
When your numbers keep on climbing
And your thirst wont go away
If your vision goes all blurry
Then you’re hyper on that day.
If you feel a little shaky
Once your levels start to drop
If your brain won’t think in straight lines
Glucose will, the hypo, stop.
Once your HBAs are stable
At a number close to 6
When your post meals levels hover
Close to 8, you’ve found the fix!
When your food intake and dosage
Of the insulin you need
Have been tested, checked and sorted
You’re in charge – you take the lead!
Soon you’ll know as much as they do
If you do your research well
Your control will be in your hands
– go and give those ‘experts’ hell!

For when you’re hypo, and prone to cussing
Add some FPs to your washing.
Then drink that effluent, slimy jelly
(Thanks to soap, it isn’t smelly):
It’ll smack your gob and stop ears blushing…

As genetic hairdos get shaped in the womb,
Some HLA-genes are missed by the comb.
Sooner or later,
You’re a self-protein hater,
And the gel ignites (of the Type 1 bomb).

The day Immune System starts driving a car,
Some glandular bits* will get smacked to the tar.
You’d think the DVLA
Would have something to say,
Yet the IS is immune – it’s really bizarre!

*in the case of organ-specific autoimmunity (like T1 diabetes)

In the Martian city of L’Aventis,
You can perambulate with holey panties
And Lantus your bum…
But Apidra your tum
For those Mars bars’ feasts of plenties.

A sili nun named Su-Lin In
Committed such a luni sin:
She flirted with some antibodies,
Let them in where only God is.
This sin has done you in*, Su-Lin…

*Have mercy! Poor thing was set on the road of debauchery after her beta-cell convent was invaded & destroyed by a mob of autoreactive T-cells

@ckoei some of these make my head hurt

Engelbert makes my head hurt
Sitting there against Tim’s shirt,
In summer’s heat…
Rip off that tweed:
Don tank top and a miniskirt!

@ckoei‘s a very nice girl
But her mind is all in a whirl.
Writing Limericks galore
She could be a bore,
But instead she’s a poetic pearl

After pinpointy piercing by Singer,
Your clothes think: “In safety we linger”,
But what have we here…
An insulin spear?
You merciless mercery stinger!

And specially for @katie,

Being stabbed by a needling Bernina,
For your garb is just a beginner:
If you inject through your clothes,
You add to their woes –
To textiles you cannot be meaner.

You’re likely to go hypo at Morecambe:
Potted shrimps haven’t got much carbs on ’em.
For a taste of what’s rich,
Plunge into Blackpoolish pitch –
A dip in that treacle will score some.

To cauterize leaky, retinal veins,
Use a swamp dragon’s not-too-hot flames:
To temper its heat,
Feed it chilli that’s sweet,
Or your ears might start puffing like steam-engined trains…

Most pumpers’ desideratum’s a clip
That in a blink onto bloomers can slip.
A belted bikini?
If your name’s Mussolini…
And while marching, you need extra grip.

An injection-objector, Blob Chick,
Said: “Your penning has made me feel sick!”
Though her public tooth-picking-
And-lip-balm-on-sticking
Have conjured up loads of reciprocal ick…

When courting a testy D-lass,
Make sure your sweet-talk’s not too crass:
With umpteenth innuendo
About needles doing what men do,
You’ll have plentiful pricks come to pass.

After weeks of being tectonic drift’s guest,
Female BGs start climbing a hormonal crest:
As plates collide,
Peaks & troughs coincide;
Pancake planes get crumpled up and there’s nEverest.

Glycaemic’ly speaking, some feasts can be taXing:
With so much to eat that is sweet & climaXing.
Pigging out in this way,
You might lose limbs in the fray,
And end up as boar’s head…with an apple…relaXing.

My BGs have got writer’s block:
Block block block block block block.
Block block block block block bloc,
Block block block block block bloc…
Block block block block block block block block!

It looks like a neat & stable 5 high…just wish I could get some writer’s mortar, too –
they’re so easily flattened to the floor or piled into towering heaps without it.

I’m really worried by Wally,
I think she’s dropped off her trolley.
Making limerick waste
Using copy and paste,
No wonder she’s not very jolly!

Oooooops! Duly edited to reflect the true gender of Wally. My sincere apologies!

You have to feel proud of Cecile
Her poems have lots of appeal.
Sometimes they don’t scan
As a limerick can
But she writes them with unstinting zeal.

@teloz: I know Wally has a certain manly ring to it, but my full female glory – Wallette – makes me sound like a spendthrift bulwark of capitalism, so I fare forth with the former (just take note that I’m topped with some lovely Cochrane curls, and downwards I’m fully (f)rocked )

The reason CGM glucose sensors
Can’t be dished out by medicine dispensers,
Is that the BBC’s* got
The whole blooming lot:
Some six hundred’s employed as censors!!!!!!!

*Poor things are tortured into dropping their esses by means of endless repetition of the spell “be…be…cee!”

@brickwall – sorry about the gender confusion, but you have to admit your avatar isn’t very helpful, that’ll teach me to do more research! Anyway, my derogatory ditty has been duly corrected.

My long suffering diabetes nurse
Said, “Your vascular system’s perverse!
When I try to get blood
It’s like syphoning mud,
It’s enough to make a bloody nurse curse!”

Nursie got very upset
With the last lot of blood that she let.
My HbA1c
Was eight point six-three
She said, “How bloody daft can you get?”.

Cathy my nice DSN
Is not very happy with men.
When she sticks in the needle
She turns really evil,
And pokes ’round again and again.

If you’re @teloz, and weigh nearly a ton,
It’s such burden to go for a run.
Let Nurse chop you in two
And give each half a shoe:
They’ll lightfootedly hop down to 4.31…5*

*hypothetical HbA1c of one @teloz/2

A diabetic cockroach, Grigori’s
Staple foods were sweets & liquorice.
He’s now got six feet under
And ommatidia all asunder –
Thank goodness he can’t move to where that sticker is.

While shovelling snow up north,
Set your basals to halfpennyworth…
Or you might end up low,
Then scooped up by a plough
And tossed in the Firth of Forth.

When bugged by a plethora of plugs
Used to bung up infusion set mugs,
With a dollop of glue
They’ll be baubles anew:
Some seasonal finery for your fir (of Doug’s).

Diabetics with high blood sugars
Are quite tasty for sweet toothed cougars.
Just remind them to brush:
Such sweetmeaty mush
Is catastrophic for feline chewers.

Gnomey has got a new meter,
It’s not really very much neater
Than the old Compact Plus
That’s the size of a bus
And sucks up his blood by the litre.

Terry’s new, colossal Cmpct +
Sounds as thirsty as I once was
Before diagnosis,
Drinking Coke in big doses…
Perhaps its BGs do ten surpass?

Should you land in a mosh pit sans* clothes
And your pump is endowed with a hose,
Get rid of the arms
Of headbanging barms –
A chain saw will timely of all tube hooks dispose.

*But equipped with belt & @annette‘s hardy camera case, ’cause you’re going to need both hands to handle the saw

Those ladies hooked up to a pump
Sometimes get a bit of a hump;
Their hoses in tangles
With bracelets and bangles
They come back to earth with a thump.

Female penis envy is dead,
They’re after our gonads instead.
Testicular betas
Are now here to greet us
Can men ever sleep safe in their bed?

Are you sick & tired of test prickles?
Nip tiny bits off Terry’s testicles;
Shoot them up in your back
And prevent immune flak:
Send your T-cells on their sabbaticals.

Misogynistic limericks aside
Women just fill me with pride.
We men just can’t tell,
With our single brain cell,
The compassionate nature you hide.

In the ruthless world of limericks
There’s no sweetness or big, cheesy winks
For the sake of a rhyme,
There’ll be many a crime:
Like “camembert” & “preserved figs”*.

*another one of those dishes of death that is dastardly difficult to bolus for…

Poor @teloz is really being stressed
In the search for some savings and through quest
For born again B*-cells:
First gallows, now belles
Out to grab albatross eggs from his nest.

*Beta (forum unable to do Greek letters)

I’m glad I don’t live in SA
And see our Cecile every day.
Her vast intellect
Makes me feel so henpecked
I’d eventually wither away.

One hundred and thirty nine posts
Must be a surprise to our hosts.
Limerickical rhymes
in these modern times
Must be worth any number of toasts!

It’s really quite easy to fall
For the prospect of losing a ball;
To beat diabetes
It’s easy to see these
As objects of useful recall.

Tim’s diabetic top tip
Is get Engelbert driving your ship
At first he injected
But now that’s rejected
And now they are joined at the hip.

I hereby declare @teloz bull of the ball

So my brain’s inhabited by a brood of intellig-hens
That make @teloz quail when they cackle their loony sense?
They can’t prevent hypos
Or cataracts & fry toes,
But they can pop out rotten eggs* by the hendecadozens…

*limer(ch)icks

Good gracious! So @tim is a hippie?
Continuously out on a drippy trip, he?
No more pens that are swords
To strike my empathy chords
And no more reason to be dippy?

It’s taken me years for the penny to drop
On how to hitch pump to your midriffic cob:
With a CLICK, THUNK and cry, Oh!
Of Oh-my, Oh-mio!
It seems like quite a handful…or would that be a bob?

When inserting sensing bits in your blubber,
You’ll be in need of a lard-cleaving grubber:
If you have no harpoon,
You can sharpen a spoon –
With which you also can shovel in your supper.

My BGs are such unruly kids:
Supposed to stay safe & sound in the mids,
But they’re drawn like dog hairs
To carpeted stairs –
Up and down all day long…foolish gits!

My BGs drive me up the wall
When they upwardly climb & downwardly fall.
For their ups, there is insulin;
For their downs, I put sweeties in…
So Humpty’s got a mattress* and a mound, few bricks tall.

*made of marshmallow

Diabetes is an interminable test
With overs never over and no rest.
Armed with insulin bat
And glucose bowled fast* at that,
You can but hope that the pitch is the best**.

*& slow, you never know with a bowler who ;

Comparing diabetes to cricket
Is clever you know, just the ticket!
The analogy’s sound
For the merry-go-round
With the needle and just where to stick it.

The buttock, the belly, the thigh,
The choice makes me waver and sigh
I know that the needle
Is not really evil
But when it hurts me I just wonder why.

Diabetic gnomes have such sensitive feelers:
Even mossies can make them turn squealers.
If what you hear sounds appalling
(Like soprano bagpipes caterwauling),
They’d much rather shoot up than go mealless.

Chirping on in crickety vein:

You can also use glucose as willowy swat
To dab at balls bowled by the insulin squad:
With basals as spinners
And fast bolus* winners,
Your wickets will go low, shot or no shot.

*bowlers’

Those horrible, nasty T2s
Are taking much more than their dues.
All that posh insulin
That they’re pumping in
Should be left for the others to use.

To save costs in our great NHS
We must give the T2s something less.
Putting them on strict diets
Won’t cause any riots,
But it won’t help to sort out the mess.

In order to kick an infusion set goal,
Get Gerrard to make you a hole.
Just hope that your lard
Is not van der Sarred
And that your cannula darts in like Joe Cole.

For a game of diabetic darts,
Paint your stomach without triple parts:
Protect your bull’s eye with glasses
To prevent umbilic trespasses;
Put a score of 10* or less on the cards.

*for kidneys’ sake

Tim’s Shoot Up review of the year
Really is nothing to fear;
Written so quick
With his digital Bic,
Once read it runs out of your ear.

Good old Diabetes UK
Often has plenty to say
About things diabetic
And lives so frenetic
It’s best if you do as they say.

Some people would say that it’s sad
For Gnomey alone in his pad
Writing crap limericks
To get all his kicks
As if rhyming was all that he had.

With lantus my flab is awash
Absorbing large dollops of dosh
That the poor NHS
I have to confess
Could use to buy clerks orange squash.

Five needles a day is the norm
Six or seven if my blood’s out of form
Add the holes from the lancets
That make me do dance steps
Diabetes just goes down a storm!

Those nasty NHS top brass
Have been wasting dough on orange squash & cars.
Now they’re withholding Lantus
To make their patients sweet as Fantas,
Then sold & served in vampiric bars.

The holiday season is here
A time all diabetics fear.
When you know that mince pies
Can ruin your eyes
And your kidneys, it’s perfectly clear.

If nakedness floats your boat
Running around sans your coat
Just watch your blood glucose
And membranes that are mucose
Or your DSN bites out your throat!

In the case of diabetes,
Both cursed & blessed are sweeties:
When high, you must stop;
When low, stuff your gob
Or you’ll end up not too sure of where your feet is.

On days when your poor feet are numb
It’s easy to end on your bum.
To slide and to slip,
To stumble and trip,
It’s really not very much fun.

Neuropathy now gets accused
‘Cause @teloz‘s bum is abused.
Rather glare at your Croc:
It turns floor into bog –
You wouldn’t get glued if you were differently shoesed.

Those Crocs are really ideal
For protecting feet that can’t feel
The reduction in pain
Is a positive gain
When you know that they won’t ever heal.

The NHS’s newest way to skive
And make all Type Two BGs dive,
Is to give them a shoe
Made of concrete & glue…
You might end up* with a mermaid wife.

*or is it down…at Morecambe?

Wherever the nice T1s lead
With their minuscule insulin need
The T2s will foller
In profligate squalor
Drinking gallons and gallons, like mead.

With sweet blood & high blood pressure,
Take a hot bath for your pleasure:
You’ll be cooking some jam
Without* “wham!” or a “bam!” –
And be prized as well-preserved treasure.

*thanks to holes made by injections/infusions/lancets

I’m actually beginning to see
That Cecile is competing with me,
Each diabetic story
Is for limerick glory,
We’re both just sad as can be.

Limericks aren’t supposed to be flaunt lit:
A throwing down of the verbal gauntlet…
These long-distance strolls
Through diabetic dust bowls
Were meant to be jolly & frolicking jaunt* lit(?)

*Of course, you’re going to have to get rid of those cumbersome, concrete clonkers and clap on Crocs (after slipping out of scratchy, sad sackcloth**)

**This is a not very subtle challenge to see who can compose the most alliterative limerick…and I urge other members to join the fray – we’ll need a sizable army to conquer @teloz on that front

My BGs are blooming bumbling bees,
Can’t crank out honey, ’cause they’ve lost the keys:
Niggling insulin’s nigh
So glucagon has gone shy;
Fall down the flue to bounce* back to your knees.

*compliments of adrenaline

Alliterative limericks lack lustre
Bedecked with bravado and bluster.
Rough, rollicking rhymes
On euphemistic enzymes,
Many more than a mad man might muster.

After autoimmune assasination
Of bulging betas (by bashing them thin),
Your T-cells can’t cope
With the D they’ve dished up:
Every tea time, enneedle & eat the min*.

*minimum…or mince pies

Fruit Pastilles fit in a feline Fleur bag
& Give good grounds to gallivant through the Gulag.
Halt happy hard labour!
Insulin is in favour:
Jam down those jujubes to jellify your JET LAG*.

*Jackhammering Exertions To blame (for) Low Arterial Glucose

Footnotes are a terrible way
To explain what your rhyme has to say
If you can’t get the metre
With alpha and beta
You might as well not try and play.

A limerick’s rhythm is fixed
By traditions that can’t be unmixed
Though tweaks are allowed
You can’t fool the crowd
So the ones that don’t work are just nixed.

This blog is a wonderful model
Helping new diabetics to toddle
Through DMI doses
To pumps and their hoses
Without lots of ignorant twaddle.

Alliterative Angels and
Heavenly Hosts all Holding Hands
Sweetly Singing
Bolus-Busting
Carb-count carols ‘cross the land.

Deck the halls with dratted holly
Thorns that really arent so jolly
leaves that prick
without test strips
Isnt it just bloody folly?

@annette: It’s unfair, you’ve got an alliterative name & surname!

From Queen Victoria’s ball,
You’ll make an enormous haul
Of pancreatic betas
With which they can treat us
To prevent our il&merickal fall.

I know, I know, I don’t refer to anything in the text above, but as footnote I was extremely affronted by @teloz‘s unwelcoming words…I thought that for diabetes limericks, we might indicate that they weren’t amputees?

I’m off to make scones with lemonade & cream:
It’s as “fast” as an Analog Insulin stream…
But their stay in the oven
Really is a dozen,
Not like Ana’s thirty-supposed-to-be-fifteem.

A kamikaze kangaroo
Was Lantussed & ‘Logged into the loo.
Could a Medtronic model
With neat, nifty noddle
Our ‘opper obstetricize out of the poo?

Pachyderms who pump, get pierced with a porcpin:
That queasy quilting-with-a-quill is quartan.
The range* includes “Rhino”
And slender, svelte “Spino“;
If their tummies are tallowed, it might take a tall ‘un.

*currently available are “Porcupine” (middling), “Rhino”(robust), “Spino”(lengthy), “Sugarbird”(ideal for hyperglycaemic fine artists) and “Kudu”(if you’re kinky)

Dig into tens of tubs of DIABICE:
It’s refreshingly light, and rather nice.
To prevent this delight
From causing frostbite,
Add a tiny tinge of chilli spice.

Ubiquitous BGs will be under and up
‘Cause that vagabond vampire has vacated his sup.
So why is his wame sick
And for Xmas, he’s exodontic?
“A yard of yummy yule sop makes a yucky* yule cup.”

*Count Dracula isn’t really into dessert wines (like @hils, he’s afraid he’ll appear foppish )

zzzzzzzz…sorry, such a taxing stretch of alliteration has induced hypoglycaemic zizzing (x_x)

If nude DIABICE should give you the shivers,
Try the new kind with Fruit Pastille slivers.
You’ll be burning more fuel
Eating stuff with a chill:
Some sweetness might help out your dozy D liver(s).

If you’re a believer in voodoo,
You might think the horn of a kudu
Can be used as syringe,
As it fits you a cinch:
Its uncontrolled spiral does suit you.

@stephen has mislaid his Mio –
He now has to use a corkscrew
To put in that pipe
Close to his tripe
And hope that his spirit stays VO*.

*Very Obliging

A rude & outlandish hippo
Has been stepping on everyone’s big toe…
It’s just ’cause Queen Vic’s
Hot cough syrup mix
Has more carbs & ‘cohol than that snow.

If being pronged makes you smart,
You can now perhaps take heart:
Don’t cover your balls –
This clever dick calls
For nanotech’s little-speck art.

Test strips as such aren’t muti,
But are still a big part of your booty:
For a pot, you give Mammon
Three kilos of gammon*…
Or more, at ASDA, if he’s not snooty.

*after rounding off, at Tesco’s; with the pot containing One Touch Ultras (last year’s December price)

Haemoglobin are told many sweet sins
by bikini’d babes* with sugary skins.
Although at home he stays mum,
1 nurse later, he’ll become
confessing about their smooth, hairy shins.

*hydrophyllic glucose

High blood glucose will cause
You to crave gallons of sauce:
Pepsis and Vimtos,
Eggnogs in big pos
Run in ’til you piss like a horse.

Hypoglycaemia’s a given when
You’re given an insulin pen.
Pencil that guides
Or Tipp-Ex that hides
Scoot off as soon as that ink’s in.

Type Twos without shoes
Endanger their toes…
Leaving their digs,
Out to get cigs:
Zip up, or a foot they might lose.

my BGs are metric’ly measured in
minute female bits of gangster’s kin.
over the pond
lasses respond
/Like ladies of bounty: one’s like eighteen!(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Carbohydrates can be counted
As long as your measures aren’t rounded:
Restrain your sup’s
Beer muggic cups
Strictly, or your feet may be found dead.

Crustaceans are much trickier:
Resort to technologic’ gear.
A scale that totes
Bazillion notes
Should satisfy a picky ea’r*.

*eater

Basal seems flat as a manta…
At times, though, it should look like Santa:
Sunrise, you’ll need
A trifle more feed;
Later, before it’s early, make it scanter.

Before you eat some pasta,
On board have stuff that’s faster.
Long-distance Lantus
Unwillingly canters…
Shoot up a bit of Boltish Rasta.

Because it has nice, fatty jelly,
Elect to inject in your belly.
Legs lag behind;
Lazy bum’s blind:
Your stomach’s the place for the melee.

Bloody bovine udder
Licked clean – it makes me shudder!
Onwards it goes:
Our @alison‘s cows
Drop blood to fill and flood her…

A handful of singles
Should save your toes’ tingles.
Heave you a five
Every mo you’re alive:
Smear fielders, Vaseline Girls*!

*A troupe of overalled ladies armed with jars of petroleum jelly & brushes, who’ll ensure that not just the slips’ paws are slippery…oh, and they’re usually referred to as the Balmy Army

To tow your car – unable?
Use pump’s tube as cable.
Because of stretch,
Expect to fetch
Spools of stringy hose to fill*.

*’cause “prime” doesn’t rhyme

Pumps are terrestrial creatures
Used to keep “dry”*, ‘stead of leeches.
Must you dive in a pool?
Put pump on a stool:
Swimming’s not one of its features.

*not urinating excessively

Now that the year’s as blunt as a lancet
Employed all annum as burrowing blood-get,
Whip out that snickersnee’s
‘Ung over dull piece:
New Year’s the time to be sharp as a pinhead.

You* can die a bee-teasing:
Sweet stings cause decreasing
Food & air gains
From tiny tot veins…
Buzz off, honeyed squeezing!

*especially retinas & kidneys & nerves

Though trifles sound tiny as mice,
They can make your blood glucose rise.
Once the cream on the top
Ends sweetness’s stop,
For the PP*, there’s verminous highs.

*Penned or Pumped Piper

If feeling a bit saltcellary
And assaultive towards the jellery,
It’s easy to know
Your BG is low:
Eggs’ll give it wings, says @bellebe .

Terry’s laid hands on a Walkman*
That as limbs go, has far less than…
It’s got a cassette
For hits of lancet –
If it wasn’t so heavy, it could cancan.

*rhyming crimes already committed when Wikipedia informed me that Sony marketed it as a “Stowaway” in the UK

Polymermaidens put milk in
To make sensors smooth & silken.
If you turn up your nose
For their fishy lactose,
Rather dip your REAL-Times in the grease tin.

Passive-aggressive diabetics
Lancetless do their finger pricks:
As their hides stay shut
And they get no blood,
They prong them with some pointed sticks.

A diabetic mewled: “I feel low!”,
So was sent to the shrink, Dr. Dough.
“Slurp pink spaghetti
While your foot’s feeling heady –
Your psyche will rise ’til your right toe.”

Those noisome Metformin pills
Can sensitize Type 2 ills,
But the reek they exude
Is not very good:
Like something endowed with gills.

Get you a mammary harness:
A bra for both sexes garners
A place for your pump…
If your bosom is plump,
Make sure that its valley* quite large is.

*cross your heart

Glucose can now make you glow,
So if your power supply’s so-so,
Just swallow sweet sop –
In a blink, you’ll light up
And bedazzle your gloomy chateau.

If pump pouch needs a tummy tuck
After years of bearing all that muck,
It might droop in lavvy
‘Cause its load’s so heavy:
Some nip&tuck…and it’s out of kak!

Our diabetic evolution
Brought Panky’s execution,
‘Stead of body bags
For pump and fags:
“0h, my kingdom for a roo bin…”

This footnote has nothing to do with the above – it just lifts its feet for the sake of the double Nelson

When Panky’s Bs are cranky,
You wouldn’t need a hankie*:
Hypodermic impalement
Of skin for this ailment
Will stop sweet spills of rank pee.

*though you could use it to dab at digital wounds (if you’re not vampiric)

Should your raiment get soppily wet
When you hypo and start spouting sweat,
Ask Marilyn Monroe
Where she got that airflow:
It’ll blow you as dry as crispbread.

Thanks to @lizz‘s and @stephen‘s mention of lipohypertrophy of injection sites, my lady’s are up for expansion:

A lady shot up in her bosom
To enlarge her chest-dwelling twosome:
“If my feet I can’t see,
Less worries for me –
I never would know if I lose ’em…”

Hip Hamlets of your pancreas
Soliloquize, while Ts harass:
“To beta – or not?
There’s always a shot,
Or pumps by Medtronic and Animas.”

@teloz needs a new ‘ron –
His are off, with few on.
Now willy’s nilly
And feet feel chilli:
Rewire Juan to cure Don.

As pirate’s Medic Alert,
The parrot’s an excellent bird:
“I’m a poly-!” it screeches,
“Eat, drink, wet breeches!”
I’ll give a leg for a thing so absurd…

Today*, Tim should shove down his
Thirty four birthday brownies
With relative ease:
He just needs to squeeze
His pump on its “Drown” piece.

*19/02/11

A Type 2 got rid of some weight,
Raffling off his feet at a fete.
“The beard I’ll retain:
My chinny chow mein
Does cover my mouth like a gate.”

If elephant or if orange,
Use a long one – perhaps a four inch
To get insulin
Through your ???????* skin:
Hush, it sounds too foreign…sh!

*Drat BuddyPress! Supposed to be Cyrillic characters that denote “thick” in Russian

Always being decked out in furs
Prods your absorption with spurs.
If your wardrobe is bare
Of clothes blessed with hair,
Carry hot dogs in your purse.

To keep your BG in line
And stop that sugarbird flyin’,
Tip a table that Trotts –
With no fast, sweet shots
As quick as Kevin O’Brien.

@tim bans us from Activity:
Such bustling will cause low BG…
We big rhyming horde
Can perhaps be restored,
But he’ll be left with no sweetie.

A buffalo sat on her Cozmo:
It’s now as dead as a dodo.
She’s just had it gilt
And bought it a quilt,
No matter it’s going to cost dough.

There once was a diabetic call Chris
Who was quite bad and had sugary P***
He never tested
The doctor requested
But he wont cause he is a lazy S***

Sorry for the swearing but i literally couldnt think of anything else that rhymed!

After your betas’ failure,
Tons of paraphernalia
Can usurp your abode:
Arrest that whole load
And ship it to Australia.

A nosy hound named Lola
Can smell when you go polar.
A dip down south?
Her trusty mouth
Will bay: “You need some Cola!”.

To help you when you’re hyper,
Make use of Cleo, the viper:
She’ll nip you when
You go past 10 –
You wouldn’t need a diaper.

If you’re a travelling meter
Who longs to snooze by the heater,
This sleeping bag could
Be worn like suit,
And make your life much sweeter.

When Queen Liz’s toes do rot
‘Cause her BG’s far from naught,
Her corgis could chew
Them off if they’re blue:
The NHS will save a lot.

Are you a capricious tart
Who’s breaking her needle’s heart?
I’m not one-night standish:
I promise, I brandish
My sharps ’til depth* us do part.

*when their 8mm (or less, for lancets) are worn to the nib

To pump, you’ll pay top dollar:
Your neck will need white collar
To afford this machine…
If your purse is quite lean,
Look here to shout and holler.

In order for @tim to be hugged,
Use Humalog to get him drugged:
While out cold & low,
Squeeze him like dough…
Wear earplugs – he might just eruct*.

*caused by beer-o’clock

There’s lots of less- and lottery
When you are blessed with honeyed pee…
Twixt o-point-six
And thirty thrix,
What’s odds of on-the-dot BG?

If you are a CGMployer
Who snoops on your glucose seesawyer,
How could you besquint
Such sweet innocent?
You prying & intrusive voyeur!

You always should Chek your Accpet:
It capably can wet the bed
With ruby red gore
It sucks from your fore-
Finger, or thumb, says @annette .

I’m bound for blood sugar acme
If I with pancakes should pack me
And refrain to inject
The stuff I’ll expect
To ack-ack the carbs that attack me.

At a frightening one point three
She was sweating and shivery
But pancakes and syrup
Brought her sugar way up
And now she’s a hyper lady

If CGM gets laryngitis
And can’t scream when your BG slight is,
A drop of blue Bols
Might restore its loud calls
By cooling those vocal cord blighters…

These lines belong to one of @teloz ‘s imaginary PumpPets:

My nightie I’ve toodle-oo kissed:
Henceforth, I shall be a gnudist…
Though I’ll keep on my hose
To deliver that dose,
And stop me becoming too pissed*.

*polyuric

Shoot Up’s now got molars:
It’s time for us to go @lizz
And worship our hosts
With honey-sweet posts…
JUST REMEMBER, YOU MUST BOLUS!*

*for @mustard ‘s sake, a bit of shouting

Use calculating wizard
When stuffing stuff in gizzard…
No matter you’re dumb –
Let pump do the sum:
Knowing what dose is his art.

A diabetic stunner
Can’t get rats to shun her.
That murine lot
Gives her the NOD:
Her Cozmouse…always on her.

For diabetic bondage,
Use tubing to make fond hitch –
But first be assured
That pump can be moored:
“With strings my Pod is non-rich.”

“Doctor, my ‘bedes is briddle –
Daylong, an up & down fiddle!”
“Forsake your rebounder:
No more you’ll flounder…
Get off, and stay in the middle.”

There was a Scottish farmer
Who also was embalmer:
“My glaur-covered palms
Will sully my balms –
This’ll make corpses feel calmer.”

When modelling stuff that is haute,
Damned is the digit with spot…
Though if I was Doulton,
And selling a salt tin,
I’d pay tons for @tim‘s pepper pot.

Diabetic treacle bender?
You might need Thing to lend a
Hand while you twist
Those sweets in your fist:
His BG’s* always slender.

*guaranteed to be only a handful (5), and he usually has lots of blood on hand, especially if he’s just cleaned this bed…

Pumpers are such idiots,
Getting bummed by many bits…
Perhaps pens might restore
Their heads’ IQ score:
We “writers” are all brainy twits

If they’re not restrained by cups,
BGs, like bollocks and bubs,
Will leap quite far
Sans jockstrap and bra:
Capture those hills with von Trapps.

As far as ‘betic terroir goes,
Plant your vines in dead flat rows
To stop your bouquet
Smell like acetone spray:
Give peaks & troughs a good bulldoze.

@ckoei‘s* tireless it seems,
Writing ludicrous limericks in reams.
She never will rest,
She’s one of the best,
She’s writing them all in her dreams!

*Pronounce as “At-seekie” to make the rhyme scan.

The hypoglycaemic Ckoei
Is always nibbling chop suey
Without any rice
To halt all those highs:
Her BGs quite often are two-y

A diabetic clavier
Will be in need of savvy ear:
Its illness disposes
To highs and to lowses,
Making middle Cs hard to hear.

For just in case, a bag’s the theng,
With spares and sweets, the whole shebeng…
Your lord Baden-Powell
Approves such bestowal:
You’ll be prepared for Mafikeng.

@alison now is VeO
As pumps (and not as years) go.
Hope that her brandy
Goes down real dandy…
Does sound hung over to me, though 😆

When you are naming our species,
Look at our pee, not our faeces…
It better be honey
To be on the money:
Put it in hive and say “Bees, seize!”

How much subcut stuff is on board?
There might be a fast-acting horde
Down in the hold,
About to make bold
Mutinsuliny ’til you’re shored.

You’ll have an insulin stash
In giving your bangers* a mash:
Enough for a Pygmy…
Though if you’re a big me,
You also should squeeze your kolbász.

*just for this limerick’s sake, assume that sausages contain porcine pancreas

You really are stretching a point,
Thinking insulin’s held in a joint
Of pulverised pig
That ain’t very big,
Or sausages simply conjoint.

You really are stretching a point,
Thinking insulin’s held in a joint
Of pulverised pig
That ain’t very big,
Or sausages simply conjoint.

There goes my Actrapid sausage…
Where shall I find suchlike sauce which
Costs less than those packs
Of porcine knick-knacks?
Better fly off, dear pet ostrich!

A bride, with her pump on her garter
And fruit pastilled blooms – don’t you her?
She cried with dismay
As she tossed them away:
“Quite soon, I’ll be glycaemic martyr!”

A lecherous old gnome sits and cries,
He weeps, and he wails, and he sighs.
He knows it’s a sin
To stick pen needles in
The flesh of a tender bride’s thighs. 😆

While Kate can dump trained gown in bag,
The ‘betes is always a drag…
We can’t just ask Harry
This damn thing to carry:
We’re fettered, like Terry to fag.

When choosing the one you’ll wed,
Give ;

A basal alarm’s like a baby –
With wauling it’ll both night and day be
Getting you stressed:
By giving it breast,
You might get it hushed up…well, maybe.

The Cozmopolitan lizz
Is always very busy
Jumping around
Her trusted home ground:
“Elsewhere, I’m in a tizzy.”

A nasty ophthalmo imposter
Got hold of the poor Earl of Gloucester:
“Your eyes I’ll take, fellow –
Their yolks* are all yellow…
And wife whines ’cause eggs so much cost her.”

*caused by oedematic maculae, with “hard yellow exudates”

In case there is a cure
And your betas do endure,
Should these tedious poems
‘Bout sweet pee syndromes
Be flushed into the sewer?*

*rhetorical question, please

Your soul will bathe in black pools
If blood’s full of treacly pack mules.
Get rid of that toffeed
Asinine horse breed
By nipping off all of jack’s jewels.

If you find your pen a bit thick,
And yearn for an object more sleek,
Feed it to a dachshund
Whose sphincters are not ruined:
You’ll have to put up with some reek.

Nig, while Munching dried peaches
Does cry: “Life sure a bitch is!
These fruits seem so small,
But carb-wise, they’re tall:
Avaunt, ye sly BG* riches!”

*in this case, it can be both blood glucose & bowel gas (thanks to the preservative, sulphur dioxide)

To hit a ‘betic birdie
Your game should be quite sturdy:
An eagle might mean
Your BG’s too lean…
Score par to halt jeopardy.

This one has to be read with a “lithp”:

You’ll AGE quite fast when dancing
The two-step with that prancing
Thug, Amadori…
This sorry love story
Will make your health a gone thing.

Those bloody greedy millimoles
Consumed potato casseroles.
Now meter says “HI”:
With traps you could try
To keep them from your fingerholes.

An oedematic macula
Was sucked dry by Count Dracula.
Says maiden, whose peeper
Is no longer seeper:
“This vamp-eye looks spectacular!”

While bumbling ’bout the mall,
Your BG’s bound to fall…
When it nearly two is,
Beware of John Lewis:
Aim here when you do sprawl.

You perhaps should put your date
On scales to check its weight:
Too much of such fruits
Might empty your boots
And leave you with blind pate.

A bovine beast, whose calves
Cried “Cramps! Smear some smooth salves!”,
Ignored them with sigh:
“With glucose sky-high,
We’re cut out for sweet Bovs.”

This illness, where betas withdrew,
Can vertic’ly challenge us, too…
Keep it short and sweet:
Get rid of your feet,
And dare not don platformal shoe.

An ever-so-peckish Type 1
From sweetmeats could easily run,
But kilos of cheese
Have made her obese:
She now needs a truck for her tonne.

The hypo Casanunda*
Was tired of downwards wander.
He tried to kiss
A hyper Miss:
“Her highness I shall plunder!”

*the Discworldian dwarfish version of Casanova

Insulinic resistance
In gnohms has great persistance:
To give them enough
Fast-acting stuff,
Their pumps will need of these tins.

If you’ve got your business planned,
Be sure of its meaty gland.
For there to be cash,
No sweet pee should splash…
Make it on own Footsie(s) stand.

Buy pots of Super Glue
To stick a Pod to you.
If you beget
Some streams of sweat,
You’ll also need a screw.

Infusion sets are fickle,
So check their saucy trickle…
If it’s too wee,
There’s high BG:
Your tubing you should wiggle.

While basking in the glory
Of its glycated story,
An A1c
That dropped to 3
Got bonked by speeding lorry.

A diabetic looker
Could flash her boobs like hooker…
Those sparkling signs
Meant sweet declines:
You shouldn’t have mistook her.

A pimp* said: “I need basal rates
To pay for the beds of my maids.
An upstanding bolus
Is short and is soulless:
My poor dears need rest when it late’s”.

*compliments of @annette‘s lovely mobile typing

When ‘betes was still juvenile,
It daily suckled at a phial.
It’s now gone to school
Where it makes pens drool
Some lines ’bout its unbeta’d isle.

To stop your pen’s hot flushes
And keep it young and luscious,
Stick it in dondurma:
It’s always much firmer
Than stuff that melts and slush is.

Should your forehead be tattooed
‘Cause your betas are kaput,
A loud brass bell
This fact can tell
If all’s hidden ‘hind that hood.

It’s quite a big challenge to get
Your food and fast stuff to duet.
If just one should solo,
You both high and low go:
When eating, play fife and trumpet.

Eschew the roads of Lothian:
To hypos they’re custodian.
The Midlands are best,
While Highlands are blessed
With lots of lochs to stow pee in.

“A true tasteful girl with Type 1
Should not flaunt her flavour, my son:
Her highs and her lows,
Her rank rotten toes
Polite conversation should shun.”*

*expressing opinion of recently terrestrial creature from the Devonian era

Make sure that your washing machine
Can deal with a bloody cuisine
Of molten pastilles
And fingerprick spills
If you’re a Type 1 that keeps clean.

A thrifty ‘betic vicar
Reused his finger pricker:
“Its drums aren’t cheap –
I’d rather keep
My cash…and buy some liquor*.”

*or cigarettes, if you’re @teloz

A fine bar called “The Banting Arms“
Is always bound to line all palms
With Diet Coke
That tastes of oak:
“It’s lo-cal, milked from stringy marms”.

An overindulgent Type Two
Ingested too much fatty stew:
“Good gracious, my paunch is
Now bigger than haunches –
I thought I was ram…am I ewe?”

There can’t be things much scarier
Than sniffers of the derrière:
Smell pabulum
Along with bum
If you’re a pumping terrier.

By means of a wishing machine
It’s easy to stop your sweet pee’n…
Just let Zoltar speak:
Your “must-take-a-leak”
Will no longer need a latrine.

A game of pump Monopoly
Does always end quite sloppily.
Because “good buy”
Sounds like “goodbye”,
Infusion becomes wobbly.

A diabetic Nazi
Prevented mixing parts…he
Let no foreign
Fluids pour in:
His foot you’ll in this shot see.

When visiting a restaurant,
Make sure you’ve got a breast implant*
Of functional betas
That guarantees eaters
A steady stream to bear the brunt.

*a new Medtronic device, the Mamma Mio, consisting of a Mamma (breast pump) and a Mio (infusion set)…now how’s that for paying tribute to 2 of Shoot Up’s pet obsessions?

A diaMacbethic lady
Found her bloody hands too weighty:
She milked them bone dry,
Their gore used as dye
To pep up this bag by Katie.

To hack a pump, get ready
And sharpen your machete…
With some sure strokes
And well-aimed pokes,
You’ll cleave it like spaghetti.

Make sure your tum’s a washboard
If subcut stuff’s to be poured.
Check that it’s not
A plump, soft cot
That slowed down sauce ’til it snored.

If with a pump you snoozed
‘Cause with it banns you’ve used,
Put your dear beau
Into pillow,
Or else you might get bruised.

By means of Diabete-o-Tron,
All bother in a flash be gone…
It won’t help to bolt:
Its AI* assault
Will knock you back like tea and scone.

*Artificial Intelligence, that hopefully doesn’t turn AutoImmune

When eating bags of naartjies,
You perhaps should chew some hard cheese:
A lump of such
Has fat that clutch
And never utters carb gees.

This poem has got a complaint:
Its _etas now _asically ain’t…
So take of its “p“
And tip it…you’ll see
A substitute that’s just as quaint.

Just hope that your partner’s invisible
When you are in need of a fruit pastille,
Else the DVLA
You of licence might spay:
Which leaves you sedan chair or bicycle.

The shape of your waves should portray
Which foodstuffs you daily foray:
A syrupy sarmie
Will need a tsunami;
Slight swell’s good for rhubarb sorbet.

A driver, whose glucose did dip,
Is now in command of a ship:
“What spruce submarine –
It always stays clean…
If only its fish came with chip.”

Your DUK does eDUKate
By telling you to lose some…wait:
Don’t have lots to byte,
You will lose your site
If you’ve bitten more than 8.

If you’ve had a close-to-nil low,
You’ll be left with sodden pillow:
To banish its sweat,
Just bake it like bread
‘Til it’s toasted armadillo.

“Hey – lewd, licentious twerp!
Your tubing you should curb…
If you expose
That dangling hose,
You’ll puritans perturb.”

When islets Bees do demote,
You’ll find a willing scapegoat
In the PPS:
“We gladly confess
To not providing lifeboat.”

Does blood sugar play baritone?
Chew pastilles to lift low-pitched groan,
Until it becomes
A tenor…those gums
Should then in cuspidor be thrown.

A rhino always wrongly chose
An alcohol swab to blow its nose…
So shun boozy hankie:
Your sites won’t go manky
And horned to entice poaching foes.

There’s nothing so delicious
As lovely low-carb dishes:
You need the min.
Of porce-lin
When tucking in clay quiches.

A diabetic Android
Became quite cross & annoyed:
“You’ll need to shoot
Up for such fruit
‘Til purse is left bare and void.”

A diabetic Android
Became quite cross & annoyed:
“You’ll need to shoot
Up for such fruit
‘Til purse is left bare and void.”

Adrenals will awaken
If you eat too much bacon…
Make sure your bites
Are sans nitrites
For safe, swinetic slakin’.

@ladyupnorth, you are now obliged to try some bacon “sans nitrites” and inform us via limerick of what happened.

Adrenals will awaken
If you eat too much bacon…
Make sure your bites
Are sans nitrites
For safe, swinetic slakin’.

@ladyupnorth, you are now obliged to try some bacon “sans nitrites” and inform us via limerick of what happened.

This day*, in 1922,
A shot stopped Thompson’s trip to loo…
That bovine slug
Is now old drug:
At present, we milk GM gnu.

*11/01/12

This day*, in 1922,
A shot stopped Thompson’s trip to loo…
That bovine slug
Is now old drug:
At present, we milk GM gnu.

*11/01/12