Ringing in the New Year with limericks

On a hill in a town called Des Moines
Lived a man with a pain in his groin.
It took five months to pass
But he passed it at last:
'Twas a kidney stone big as a coin!


There was once an old poet named Quinn
Who could always a poem begin,
But the really bad part,
Was that - though he could start
He never gave the ending any really good thought.


What the righter rote warranted credit
And his wrok, almost every won red it,
He wrote smoothe; he coulld rhime,
He could maesure a line.
What she never could due though was edit.