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.

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