Two limericks on the daily prompt: dim.
It is no use singing, praising the lord hymn
The situation wherever you look is pretty grim.
You can’t escape reality
There is no equality
The prospects of survival are pretty dim.
The lights were dim and the mood was set,
Soft music was being playing by the quartet,
She alighted from the stairs
Cynosure of all stares
And broke into hip-hop to everyone’s utter regret.