Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

Oscar Wilde's sonnet 'E Tenebris' is anagrammed into 2 sonnets: one deals with heaven and the other with hell. The 3rd sonnet, which deals with the state of Man, is interwoven - which means it's comprised of the odd-numbered lines of the first anagram and the even-numbered lines of second; however, it ALSO is an anagram of Wilde's original poem.

Come down, O Christ, and help me! Reach Thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God's throne should stand.
'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'
Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.

What splendid model of our Lord's honed art
Is Heaven, home to holiness and laughter;
Some, homely brethren and the pure of heart,
Toil often with their minds on this hereafter.
How harsh of Him to band some feelings shared
By few ones, while the sinning humans brace
The hollow need, the wrath and the despair -
And know no calm and no eternal grace!
Yes, human folk maintain duality,
But only one who'd master it shall heed
The chimes of angels, preaching piety
And species blooming from the cosmic seed;
These forces whole, in their most primal shape,
Will greet the faithful 'neath the milky cape.

Ah, deep within the mammoth core of Hell
Are human souls, their own fate contemplating;
Some - foolish slobs, whipped daily in a cell,
While others - heathens, chiefly bent on hating.
Among these halls roam watchers, who are feared
By holy man and hostile fiend alike:
Enormous hounds and pythons, always near;
All hidden, waiting for the cue to strike.
The mud, the fire and the shouts of men
Forever caught between these elements -
They feed the Tempter, roaring in his den
And demons' hollers, brimming with dissent.
The brink of Hell - this parted, horrid gape -
Shall form a doom which noone can escape.

What splendid model of our Lord's honed art
Are human souls, their own fate contemplating;
Some, homely brethren and the pure of heart,
While others - heathens, chiefly bent on hating.
How harsh of Him to band some feelings shared
By holy man and hostile fiend alike:
The hollow need, the wrath and the despair -
All hidden, waiting for the cue to strike.
Yes, human folk maintain duality,
Forever caught between these elements -
The chimes of angels, preaching piety
And demons' hollers, brimming with dissent.
These forces whole, in their most primal shape,
Shall form a doom which noone can escape.

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MacArthur Park (Lyrics and music by Jimmy Webb)

Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed,
In love's hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave
On the ground around your knees
The birds, like tender babies in your hands
And the old men playing checkers by the trees

There will be another song for me
For I will sing it
There will be another dream for me
Someone will bring it
I will drink the wine while it is warm
And never let you catch me looking at the sun
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life
You'll still be the one.

I will take my life into my hands and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it
I will have the things that I desire
And my passion flow like rivers through the sky.
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life
I'll be thinking of you
And wondering why.

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down...
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no!

Originally performed by Richard Harris, the weird ballad went to #2 on Billboard in 1968. In 1978, the Donna Summer update reinvented it and it ranked #1; Ever since, the eerie lines have been referred to as 'Worst Lyrics EVER'.

All-in-all I will agree, the awful lyrics indeed have a knack for inferior phrasing. However, I feel like further dwelling on the Wonderful World of Worst Ever Lyrics is needed:

"Only time will tell if we stand the test of time."
(The verbal ingenuity of 'Van Halen')

"I'm drinkin' a soy latte
I get a double shot-e
It goes right through my body
And you know I'm satisfied."
(Madonna tries to rap)

"It's gettin' hot in here
So take off all your clothes!
I am gettin' so hot
I wanna take my clothes off!"
(Nelly's feeble plan works)

"I'm real
Even on Oprah."
(J-Lo fails to fake authenticity)

"He walks up to the closet
He comes up to the closet
Now he's at the closet
Now he's opening the closet."
(R. Kelly weaves a fine tale)

"Keep your head still
I'll be your thrill
The night will go on
My little windmill."
('Blink 182' find a rhyming, if a wee bit awkward, nickname for a girlfriend)

"I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
And my penis was missing again
This happens all the time
It's detachable."
('King Missile'. Well, I think we have a winner!)

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Keats' sonnet is anagrammed into a close, modernized paraphrase - which also contains an acrostic of a fitting word.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,-
Nature's observatory - whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Cursed loneliness! She dogs me 'tween the walls
Of the glum cubicle, so dimly lit;
My luck seems fixed, but while I'm in her thrall,
Perhaps some splendid spot would better fit -
A tufted valley with this bubbly stream,
Near gorgeous willow trees that gently sway;
I could hear hooves of mighty elks, that team
On velvet hills to fight the pests away...
No, loneliness in settings so serene
Shan't hurt me - but I'd be bereft of glee;
How prettier those kingdoms would have been
If just one person shared the bliss with me!
Prime wealths, envisaged with much time to spend,
Seem worthless - if they lack a trusty friend.

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Poisoning Pigeons In The Park
Tom Lehrer

Spring is here, ah-spah-ring is here,
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring. I do. Don't you?
'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes every Sunday a treat for me...

All the world seems in tune
On a spring afternoon,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
Every Sunday you'll see
My sweetheart and me,
As we poison the pigeons in the park.

When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide...
The sun's shining bright,
Everything seems all right,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We've gained notoriety,
And caused much anxiety
In the Audubon Society
With our games.
They call it impiety
And lack of propriety,
And quite a variety
Of unpleasant names.
But it's not against any religion
To want to dispose of a pigeon.

So if Sunday you're free,
Why don't you come with me,
And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
And maybe we'll do
In a squirrel or two,
While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment,
Except for the few we take home to experiment...
My pulse will be quickenin'
With each drop of strych'nine
We feed to a pigeon
(It just takes a smidgin)
To poison a pigeon in the park!

A Weekly Entertainment
An ode arranged by Dick "Trigger Happy" Cheney and the Smoking Guns

It's hunting time! It's hunting time!
An airborne grouse and a gun sublime!
Yes, I must say - on weekends, I'm fond of one keen little hunt. A lot. You're not?
Go get shot!
You see, only some stooge won't admire it
And this shadowy wish which inspires it:

On my weekend retreats
I feel eerily sweet
When I pepper my pal in the face.
No impaired quails in flight
Would evoke this delight
As I pepper my pal in the face.

When those buckshots go in, they are sure to make quite a dent
But those are the risks when one hunts with Vice Presidents...
Even oil rigs or drills
Are no match to the thrills
When I pepper my pal in the face.

Well, I smoothly aspire
To feign a misfire,
But really aim higher
At his head.
And if he expires,
And someone inquires,
I'd long be retired
Or already dead.
So why go on this gun-toting journey
Without bagging me an attorney?

Come by next time, you may
View an awesome display
Of me, peppering our pals in the face.
Oh, we'd have tons of fun
And perhaps gun down nuns
While we pepper our pals in the face.

All week long I spook international terrorists
So how truly important one tiniest error is?
Yes, even Dick Nixon
Was getting his kicks on
One peppering diet -
Oh, ain't it a riot
To pepper my pals in the face!

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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