I once took a trip near the coast (of Ireland)
To a city with not much to boast. (Limerick)
Its main claim to fame
Was a pub by the name
Of “Angela ‘s Ashes on Toast. “(with apologies to Frank McCord)

There once was a girl from Vermont,
Who wished to be au (so) courant.
Her hair was aflame.
Her body the same.
So alas, she was no debutante.

PS or alternate closing line – but maybe a real bons vivants?

Limerick and haiku and sonnet.
OMG, what ‘s this bee in my bonnet?
The words just won’t rhyme.
The thoughts aren’t sublime.
Don’t fear, like a flea (?), I’m still on it!