The Special Category

Anagrammy Awards > Voting Page

An optional explanation about the anagram in green, the subject is in black, the anagram is in red.


When the limerick's too easy to do:
Anagrammy's Awards -- they're for you.
The shrewd sods often say,
"Try, howe'er you may,
A limerick anagram too."



In the Garden of Eden lay Adam,
Complacently stroking his madam;
And loud was his mirth,
For he knew that on Earth,
There were only two balls and he had 'em!

Wicked madam, aware of God's plan,
Determinedly takes him in hand;
Hey, why aim to enthral?
When a hand round these balls,
Gets her total control of her man!


There is nothing so dangerous =
as the gun-endorsing hero is to
the nation herds' rousing egos.



Flash! Ah! Saviour of the universe!
Flash! Ah! He'll save every one of us!

"Seemingly there is no reason for these
Extraordinary intergalactical upsets. (Ha ha ha!)
What's happening Flash?"

Only Dr Hans Zarkov, formerly at NASA,
Has provided any explanation.

Flash! Ah! He's a miracle!

This mornings unprecedented solar eclipse,
Is no cause for alarm!

Flash! Ah! King of the impossible!
He's for every one of us,
Stand for every one of us,
He'll save with a mighty hand,
Every man every woman every child,
With a mighty Flash!

"General Gala - Flash Gordon approaching!"
"What do you mean Flash Gordon approaching?
Open fire all weapons!
Dispatch war rocket Ajax to bring back his body!"

Flash! Ah!
"Gordon's alive!"

"Flash! Ah! He'll save every one of us!

Just a man with a man's courage,
He knows nothing but a man,
But he can never fail,
No one but the pure in heart,
May find the golden grail, oh oh oh oh.

Flash! Flash! I love you!
But we only have fourteen hours to save the Earth, Flash!

Bush! Ha ha! Saviour of his own ass.
Bush! Ha ha! He'll bugger every one of us!

Seemingly, there's hardly any reason for this senseless, illegal war, remorseless savagery, horror, and continuing very meddlesome occupation. Ah, what the hell's happening, George?
"Duh? Sorry. Search me!"

Aarrggh! Only Dr. Hans Blix, a former U.N. weapons inspector, can provide any explanations:
"Bush! Ha ha! He's a Texan idiot!"

"Hark! Faithful poodle hazard! Tony Blair approaching!"
"Huh? What do you mean Tony Blair approaching? Off after him, fast!
Have no fear!
Have my NASA staff fire off all 'P.R. Vapo-Spin' heavy missile systems!

Despatch the Chancellor to save the United Kingdom from fall!"
"Aha! Flash Gordon's alive?"

Bush! - Ha ha! - Saviour of all halfwits.

He's just a man with only half a mind,
- He knows naff all, nothing.
Even he can never, never fail,
For no-one save the US of A can have the golden oil.
(What a joke!).

"Sorry George, I hate you! Thankfully, we have ONE election to save the Earth!"


Over-tens = Ever snot
Over-eighteens = See voting here
Over-twenties = It renews vote
Over-thirties = I revise troth
Over-forties = Or ever so fit
Over-fifties = If ever so fit
Over-sixties = Sex? It is over
Over-seventies = I've severe snot
Over-eighties = Give theories
Over-nineties = I senior event
Over-hundreds = Shroud venders



Under-Tens = Need turns.
Under-eighteens = Enduring seethe.
Under-twenties = Weird, nuts teen!
Under-thirties = Intrusted heir.
Under-forties = So true friend.
Under-fifties = Desire: Fit & Fun.
Under-sixties = It`s ruined sex.
Under-seventies = Ends true envies.
Under-eighties = Urge in the side.
Under-nineties = Need urine tins.
Under-hundreds = Shudder. End. Urn.



Sonnet #17 anagrammed five different ways:

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.


Who will me choose to trust some future day
If I your vivid blossoms bright survey?
God sees I tinge thee thus: pale, wilted, grey -
O shining hues blurred, of thy rich bouquet.
Could I but tell how wanton, sweet, how gay
Your carefree, stunning, childlike features, they
Who'll hear me, found one future age, will say
'There's such strained shine! No female looks that way.'
So lest this true poem wither in decay,
And in contempt, as verses that display
The bard's mirage, be scorned which themes convey
Out of some tune from times remote, we may
Behold thine heir thy radiant face portray,
And you'll live doubly, much to their dismay!


Who that my quill truth teaches could agree,
If it transcribes thy bloom abundant? He
Who rules above knows it lays down one wee
Slight clause of your true beauties, youthful, free.
Should it depict to wit's utmost degree
Your native grace, nay your sublimity,
One future epoch you might hear decree
'False Muse! Earth will this splendor never see.'
So if my rhyming verse maligned should be,
This hand's myth known, lies that were voiced by me,
And each line which doth mimic charms of thee
They style that darned bard's wrong distortion spree,
Then if from you would issue progeny,
Oh, that two times you'll live, as I foresee.

Ah who, years hence, these bold words will deny,
If I would raise thine ensign brilliant high?
Sure, even though God sees that it falls shy
Of thine eyes' glow, outbeaming noontime sky,
That blue shine of those rare orbs makes me sigh,
And to rehearse their praise I'm wont to try.
The future will accuse my rhymes 'They lie;
Such charm could to no mortal frame apply.'
But my true brave words, void are touted by
Those twisted caustic critics, who rule my
Outdated love-mad cause went quite awry.
Then to such rude tongues would be this reply
'If offspring come of thee, then should you die
You'll live in them, and in my verse, for aye.'


Will earth on this rhyme eulogies bestow,
If it surveys all your blithe graces? Oh
That I your beauties shroud does Heaven know,
Purveying an amount that's far too low.
Could I your youthful look tell, say your glow;
Your charms but name in much speech apropos,
This edict will succeeding times breathe 'No,
These blest charms grace no damsel here below.'
Then if deemed strained my choicest lines faint grow,
Dissatisfied they'd sneer 'Believe this show?' -
Your unmatched beauty deemed my fraud - 'Truth? So
To that quaint rhymester this untruth we owe.'
If of thee progeny did ever flow,
In them, and my verse, on thy life will go.


Who'll cheer my tune's strains ages hence 'They're true!'
If I compose this symphony of you?
Heaven ill impressed my brief duet sees through -
Marred monophonic fugue, with parts too few.
Could I well adumbrate your youth - with new
Fresh vivid modulations measure you,
Those ages' sentence will be 'We eschew
As quite devoid of truth that ill scored view.'
O if my music, faint, and breathless too,
They think deranged, these lying aesthetes who
My lyrics to your ideal brilliance do
That bard's berserk, rhymed wanting rant construe,
If yet a daughter fair should come through you,
The times you'll live shall be, not one, but two.


Shakespeare's sonnet anagrammed into a paraphrase (to a point), its theme being the Baconian controversy over the 'real' authorship of Shakespeare's works and which is written from Sir Francis Bacon's point of view; it's also an acrostic of Bacon's name (reading down each of the anagram's first letters, including the title) and contains a relevant quote by Bacon himself (reading down each 4th word of the anagram, not including the title).

Shakespeare's Seventy-Sixth Sonnet
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O! Know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

Sham Poem
I find there's nothing novel in my ode:
Rhymes dwindle, pen doth wander without will;
For weeks and more the Muses that once flowed
Regress tremendously and hurt my skill.
Anxiety is woven in my snag:
Now too strong a lie, it's increasingly
Close to a state where new words always lag;
I'd rather quit than type few without glee!
Still, I'd observe - that ploy, well laid and knit,
Boasts alias so cunning and high-browed;
As patrons are men ever void of wit,
Charade may yet pass masked, yet praise-endowed...
One tension yields, for, with that yarn involved,
No one's so wise to have my riddle solved!