1001

Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting February alone,
Which has but twenty-eight days clear
And twenty-nine in each leap year.

The handy brain-jogger that we,
Exercise repetitively,
Ensures that we'll learn by heart,
The days of the month, time apart,
And hence unravel by and by,
Any uncertainties which apply!

1002

[Asterisks and Ampersands]

An author owned an *
And kept it in his den,
Where he wrote tales, which had large sales,
Of erring maids and men;
And every time he breached the point
Where stuffy censors lurk,
He called upon that * to do his dirty work!

I hate the wretched ampers&
It's rude, rash, stark & underh&
Oh how annoying when you scan
An ampers& instead of 'and'!
If I were king of all the l&
I'd decree to have it b&,
Or well & truly choked in s&,
Then drowned - the hated ampers&!

1003

[This anagram of Wilfred Owen's poem in a similar theme also contains a relevant constraint: Reading down each line's 3rd word in the anagram poem results in a quote attributed to General Robert E. Lee.]

Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

The Soldier's Death

So long. It drapes me, death's unholy stench.
My crypt is in this putrid, muddy trench.
Begone. Be well. I shall not bear to be
A veteran, that simply isn't me.
Who needs war-medals, shining on the shelf,
If 'Selfless' is in fact my loss of self?
The enemy so near, I'd soon embrace
This darkness terrible, but full of grace...
How daft or merely innocent it was
To hope we battled for this global cause.
Oh, I should learn: All flesh is only grass
Which blades grow higher when the dead amass.
I think too many men, and proper ones,
Were rather fond of horror, thrills or guns...
How droll of them. No, only love stands strong.
I grasp it now, the truth of life... So long.

["It is well that war is so terrible or we should grow too fond of it."]

1004

"THE CLOSEST THING TO CRAZY"
by
Katie Melua

How can I think I'm standing strong,
Yet feel the air beneath my feet?
How can happiness feel so wrong?
How can misery feel so sweet?
How can you let me watch you sleep,
Then break my dreams the way you do?
How can I have got in so deep?
Why did I fall in love with you?

[CHORUS:]
This is the closest thing to crazy I have ever been
Feeling twenty-two, acting seventeen,
This is the nearest thing to crazy I have ever known,
I was never crazy on my own...
And now I know that there's a link between the two,
Being close to craziness and being close to you.

How can you make me fall apart
Then break my fall with loving lies?
It's so easy to break a heart;
It's so easy to close your eyes.
How can you treat me like a child
Yet like a child I yearn for you?
How can anyone feel so wild?
How can anyone feel so blue?

[CHORUS]

END

"KATIE'S SONG"
Bennet Flop

Katie I'm so in love with you,
Kate you make my senses race,
Tho' you are only twenty-two,
You dazzle me with that flawless face.
How can I bear to hear that voice,
Picture that face inside my head?
Knowing I'll never be your choice,
Knowing I'll never share your bed.

(CHORUS:)
This is the closest place to Heaven one can ever be,
You are twenty-two, I am ninety-three,
This is the closest place to Heaven's essence that's for sure,
Can't see me reaching ninety-four;
'Cos I know well, that if you spend one night with me,
I will go to Heaven, and I mean that literally!

Why am I grizzly and wheezy?
Why can't Katie be ninety-two?
Why does my heart say, "It's easy,"
Why does my head say, "No can do!"
How can one feel so new 'n' strong,
Yet look like a wrinkled cabbage leaf?
How can this love song be so wrong,
How can an ol' boy feel this grief?

(CHORUS:)

1005

[Asterisks and Apostrophes]

An author owned an *
And kept it in his den,
Where he wrote tales, which had large sales,
Of erring maids and men;
And every time he breached the point
Where stuffy censors lurk,
He called upon that * to do his dirty work!

One thing'll bring me onto my knee's
- The dreaded errant apostrophe's!
Wretched, I think. Awful! Hated!
- What dunderheads' proliferated!
Whether in "tomato's", "chihuahua's",
"Drink's", or in "ale's",
...Why, I once eyed "France v Wale's"!

1006

[A limerick containing an anagram (in bold type) anagrammed into another limerick containing another anagram (also in bold type)]

The United States of America might
be known for its culinary delight.
From all that I see,
Its name ought to be
The "Mac and Fries Eat-out Site."

(Larry Brash)

To G. Bush: See, I am not a chief fan.
I'm against your entire bad clan....
O, if I hear this stutter
Of the tawdriest matter,
I'll holler: Shut Gob, scattered man!

(Mey K.)

1007

[A news item from the Medway News anagrammed into a fictitious news article]

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