The Special Category

Anagrammy Awards > Voting Page - Special Category

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

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The Beatles

Lady Madonna, children at your feet
Wonder how you manage to make ends meet
Who find the money when you pay the rent
Did you think that money was heaven sent

Friday night arrives without a suitcase
Sunday morning creeping like a nun
Monday's child has learned to tie his bootlegs
See how they run

Lady Madonna, baby at your breast
Wonders how you manage to feed the rest
Pa pa pa pa...
See how they run

Lady Madonna lying on the bed
Listen to the music playing in your head

Tuesday afternoon is never ending
Wednesday morning papers didn't come
Thursday night you stocking needed mending
See how they run

Lady Madonna, children at your feet
Wonder how you manage to make ends meet.


Rebel Madonna, with designer-child,
Wonder how you manage to be that wild;
Who minds the toddlers when you on the stage?
Mama don't you think you should act your age?

Friday, on that stage you really surgin',
Sunday evenin' prayin' like a nun
Monday mornin' sees you, Like A Virgin
Mum with two sons.

Slinky Madonna, tarty, pointed chest,
When d'you get the time off to have any rest?
Dee dee dee dee ...
Papa Don't Preach.

Cyclone Madonna, flying here and there,
Penned a trendy pop tune, sounded Like A Prayer!

Tuesday afternoon Ashtanga yoga,
Wednesday mornin', ache a teeny bit,
Thursday, rushed to buy that brand new toga,
See how it fits!

English Madonna, she my honey bee,
She my wedded woman, my name's Guy Ritchie!

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Spring is in the air!
Flower blooms


show smiling robins.


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Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la

When the day is dawning,
On a Texas Sunday morning,
How I long to be there,
With Marie who's waiting for me there.
Every lonely city,
Where I hang my hat,
Ain't as half as pretty,
As where my baby's at.

Is this the way to Amarillo?
Every night I've been hugging my pillow,
Dreaming dreams of Amarillo,
And sweet Marie who waits for me.
Show me the way to Amarillo,
I've been weeping like a willow,
Crying over Amarillo,
And sweet Marie who waits for me.

Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
And Marie who waits for me.

There's a church bell ringing, hear the song of joy that it's singing,
For the sweet Maria,
And the guy who's coming to see her;
Just beyond the highway, there's an open plain,
And it keeps me going,
Through the wind and rain


Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
And Marie who waits for me.


La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la

When a grey day's dawning,
On a frosty London morning,
Wanna sail somewhere hot,
With Cherie on a luxury sea-yacht.
Any English city,
Where I tout for votes,
Isn't half as pretty
As east Miami's coast.

Is this the way to Robin's villa?
England's like a ship with no tiller,
My deputy's a brash gorilla,
We want a rest, Cherie and me.
We'll jet to showman Robin's villa,
Had enough of all terror-guerillas,
I'd rather gig in Robin's villa,
Where he'll let me stay for free!

La la la la la la la
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Another holiday for free!

All the masses hate me, all the MPs they denigrate me,
Saying I'll do damage,
Immigration I'll mismanage.
I'm jetting to Miami, where there's a Bee Gee's home,
He'll let me stay for nothing,
So that is where I'm gonna roam.


La La la la la la la
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa
Why does nobody like me?

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There once was this 'grammer called Adie,
Who's rude posts were awfully shady,


His grams were so lewd,
Warm, coarse and crude,
Why, they upset all of the ladies.


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There was this old 'grammist named Crafter,
His daft jokes would inspire our laughter.


His esoterical words,
Earned him forum awards.
All his humor just kept getting dafter.


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[This sonnet is noted for its use of alliteration. 33 words are involved, there is 1 instance of a triple, and only 3 lines contain none.

The special constraint is to try and "improve" on these numbers as much as possible - which is not, of course, to say that the poem has been improved :)

The result is 44 words, 4 triples, and every line has at least one instance. (When counting you have to keep in mind that it is the initial sound that must be repeated, which is not always the same as the initial letter.)]

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Cry not upon my corpse at my life's close
If tolls with tainted tone the knell one knows
Announces when my life is lost, to live
With grievious maggots: Oh may you not give
Another thought if you my sonnet see
Unto this poet; his pure love for thee
Will no immortal mournful muse allow
To follow morbid memory. When thou
At his rhymed work do one day look, when I
Be then imbued with mud, refrain from my
Unworthy buried handle saying. Heave
Away the dear love you did hold, and leave
That woeful choir, mirth killer, who'd aspire
To laugh at our hearts' old sweet warm desire.

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A Minneapolis couple decided to go to Florida to thaw out during an icy winter. They planned to stay at the same hotel where they spent their honeymoon 20 years earlier. Because of hectic schedules, it was difficult to coordinate their travel plans. So, the husband left Minnesota and flew to Florida on Thursday, with his wife flying down the following day.

The husband checked into the hotel. There was a computer in his room, so he decided to send an email to his wife. However, he accidentally left out one letter in her email address, and without noticing his error, sent the email.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Houston, a widow had just returned home from her husband's funeral. He was a minister who was called home to glory following a big heart attack. The widow decided to check her email, expecting messages from relatives and friends. After reading the first message, she screamed and fainted. The widow's son rushed into the room, found his mother on the floor, and saw the computer screen which read:

To: My loving wife
Subject: I've arrived

I bet you're surprised to hear from me. They have computers here now and you are allowed to send emails to your loved ones. I've just arrived and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you then. Hope your journey is as uneventful as mine was.

P.S. Sure is freaking hot down here!!!!

Bill Gates dies and turns up forthwith at the pearly gates (no pun intended), where he is told in an interview that they don't know whether to send him up to Heaven or down to Hell. Up for his heroic role in "a PC on every desk and in every home," or down for Microsoft software, and Windows in particular.

So while the Father and Son-Redeemer are making up their conjoined minds, they send him down for a sneak preview of Hades. It's uncrowded, a carefree society. Full of wonder; delicious food; palm trees; lovely, affectionate and erotic Hawaiian girls; camaraderie to outdo all earth camaraderie; comfy chairs; fine wine; aesthetic heirloom decor; no hotheaded war; no tedium; no outdated, humdrum, "thee-thou" church; free travel; all the coffee you can consume; riotous humour; accurate news media; infinite free education; and furthermore -- majorly awesome computers! (Steve Jobs is there, too.) Wowed, Bill does not need to see any more, and he tells them he has chosen to go to hell to settle there.

Seven days later, St. Gabriel drops in to see how Gates is doing down there, and finds the man huddled in a very dark, very hot pit, submerged up to his head in very evil smelling cow manure.

"Hi, there," says Gabriel. "How is it going here?"

"Just awful," says Bill, eyeing the messenger's crucifix. "Do breathe a whiff of this! Whew! This is nothing like what you showed me!"

"What? Oh, sorry," says the angel. "That was the beta version."

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[Shakespeare's sonnet 144 about the battle between 'good' and 'evil' love is anagrammed into 2 eignt-line poems, one discussing Evil and the other, Good. However, when combined, they also contain a word-acrostic: reading down each 5th word results in a quote from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar (though each of the anagram's poems approaches each half of it in a critical fashion):

"The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones".]

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

How futile to recall the Vile
That practiced guile and evil scorn:
Some former pains incite that bile,
And Evil lives in men, reborn.
I'll say old brutes do not appall
My world, where dignity lives on;
They're now but phantoms, after all.
It's time to rate them stopped and gone.

Good God, why are the gifted few
Who boldly fight for good, unsung?
I think my claim is trite but true:
Among us, best men oft die young.
But, though they are interred in tombs,
We may still meet with them afresh:
In years to come, their spark will bloom;
It will imbue our bones and flesh.