My apologies in advance, but here goes:
There once was a budding young whistler
Who became a newbie Chiff 'n Fippler.
He played noon and night,
Causing his neighbors to fight
'Till they hauled him off as a prisoner.
Now, when this young man was in jail,
He, unfortunately, began to ail.
His whistle they kept.
He just sat there and wept.
He’ll play again when he can make bail.
Joe
A whistler I knew from Nantucket
Played with his head in a bucket
When I asked the old boor
Why his sound was so poor
He said “I don’t blow it, I suck it!”
Had you all worried there for a minute, did I?
ROFLMAO StevieJ’s wins my vote so far!! These have all been so terrific…
Andrea ~*~
On 2002-03-18 19:21, aderyn_cyrdd wrote:
These have all been so terrific…
Or horrific, depending on how you look at it…
Hi all! Thought I’d give this a try…
There was a new whistler named Sunny,
Whose son thought her whistling was funny,
She played all the more,
'Til he finally got bored,
Her sole audience now is her hubby.
(When I first started “playing” the whistle, my son, age almost three, kept telling me to “stop making noise”. Ahh, the honesty of young children…) 
Sunny,
I couldn’t resist finishing the start of Robert Frost’s limerick:
We dance round in a ring and suppose
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows
Of life’s unheard song
Which doesn’t last long
And we all unknowingly compose
The high-end whistlers’ shoot-out
or: How Kathleen Coneely snatched victory from under the noses of Laurence Nugent and Vinny Kilduff
The finals were too close to call
But the bloke with the Oak took the fall
The young Turk with a Burke
Thought he’d won with a smirk
But the bint with the Sindt beat them all!
My whistle had far too much chiff
And I started to cry and to sniff
So I bent it in half
And broke into a laugh
As I threw the thing over a cliff
It was Brewerpaul’s intial epistle
Got folks scrambling for rhymes to match “whistle”
So few have I found
That can match that word’s sound
That now I am starting to bristle.
An anonymous poster named Porridge
For lampooning would eagerly forage
But some folks he’d irk
And they’d say “What a jerk!”
“Let’s lock him away in cold storage”.
But others would laugh at his work
They’d chuckle and titter and smirk
But were they the one
Of whom he’d made fun
Would they then instead go quite berserk?
(
Cheers to you Porridge 
)
for newbies:
A tin whistle player from Quebec
Has website I think you should check
His name’s Brother Steve
And before you leave
You’ll learn something new I suspec’
(edited to get Brother Steve out of the geriatric ward 
)
Feadan thought he’d create some mirth
And to mild amusement give birth
Instead it went south
Put his foot in his mouth
His humor indeed has no worth
[ This Message was edited by: Feadan on 2002-03-19 17:41 ]
But good 'ol Feadan can’t go far
In a slow, old airbagless car
'Cause he whistles at lights
(and at girls with fine sights)
practicing slow airs like Amhran na Leabhar
Lol John! 
How about this?
Feadan used his knees to steer
As he whistled and quaffed pints of beer
His airbag popped out
And now that poor lout
Has a fipple instead of an ear
Again, my apologies:
There was a whistler from Birmingham,
I just heard a story concerning him:
His whistles sounded flat–
We know people hate that,
So they gave him a torch for burning them.
Joe
I am that vile toper called Porridge
All my exploits were done on Dutch courage
I’ve given up lampooning
And all drunken swooning
Now I drink herbal tea made of borage.
Why? In the pub with my brass Generation
I caused an enormous sensation
When I imbibed my tipple
Through its thin plastic fipple
Till absolute inebriation.
“Just love your colours” quoth I
To the green-eyed blonde (I was high).
“I’ll bet your left nipple
Is as red as my fipple!”
Then she walloped me: what a black eye.
In agony I was gasping and blinking
But soon pain gave way to clear thinking
No more being cruel
Enough oaten gruel!
Porridge is now off the drinking
Oh! the total humiliation
The school-of-hard-knocks education
My taunts and my teasing
Have given me no ease and
That’s it. No more obfuscation. I’m on the wagon. Cured. Turned over a new leaf. Begone dull stirring. Alas, poor Porridge! I knew him well, Fellatio. What a rapier-like wit was housed in this bony dome. But those days are all over now. (Celestial Seasonings for me now boy!) But when I think back to…. [lapses into incoherence. Fade out.]
Not to let this thread die just yet:
I picked up my brand new Clarke whistle,
And the crowd, Oh they started to bristle.
They hooped and they hollered,
I thought I’d be collared.
'Til I changed my Clarke to a missile.
There was a young man with a Burke,
Who tooted all day while at work.
He played into the night,
He was no neophyte.
Too bad he was such a big jerk.
Sorry folks. I can’t help myself. It’s like a disease
A whistler thought he was slick.
But one type of tune made him quite sick.
He’d play jigs, hornpipes, slides,
Polkas, but confides,
“Reels get real old real quick!”
A whistle was played by this bear
Who only would play a slow air
No dance tunes she’d play
And some folks would say,
“You would think she was full of despair”
Cheers,
David
Feadan, LOL! Absolutely fantastic.
Steve, you did have me worried there for a second. Great stuff!
Here, I’ll give it a go:
There was a young whistler from Ballyferia
Whose whisteling was rather inferior
He went to O’Fladdy’s
For a tune with the laddies
Who ejected him from the interior.
He sighed and went on to O’Neil’s
Thinking, “Maybe they didn’t like reels”
So he sat on a chair
To play a slow air
And was pummeled despite his appeals.
He left there and sadly limped on to McShane’s
Thinking, “music appreciation, it wanes,
But I’ll sure please the crowd
If I play Miss McLeod!”
But the crowd kicked and beat him with canes.
He picked himself up and he went to O’Donohue
Saying, “what’s the worst that they’re gonna do?”
So he sits and he plays
And to the end of his days
Wonders how the whistle fit up his you-know-who.
I am that vile toper called Porridge
All my exploits were done on Dutch courage
Dutch, huh? Hmmm.
Edited to explain myself for Bloomfield below.
[ This Message was edited by: ErikT on 2002-03-20 11:03 ]
On 2002-03-20 10:43, ErikT wrote:
Dutch, huh? Hmmm.
???
A saxophone strap of elastic
Attached to my whistle was drastic
“No more dropping” I cried
But twas too tightly tied
And every C# I’d eat plastic.
There once was a whistler in Dixie
And for fun to get her kicks she
Would play for her son
Whose ears she would stun
He said, I’m 5 and I’d like to make 6, see?!"
There once was a lady named Hazel
Who liked to drive while she play-zel
'Til the airbag popped out
Hit her in the snout
And now her tone is quite nasal
So she went to a doctor named Hank
Because in her nose was a shank
He took one look inside
and started to confide
That Overton Low C I must yank
So he climbed up on top of her head
to get a good grip (she was red)
when the whistle came loose
He fell on his cabboose
“It’s stuck again”, he said
Now the limekricks on this site can be tall
But the content must be clean for y’all
So the end of my story
Can’t be gross and gory
As Hank never saw Hazel at all