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

Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green,
Towering over your head.
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes,
And she's gone.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Ah... Ah...

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies,
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers,
That grow so incredibly high.
Newspaper taxis appear on the shore,
Waiting to take you away.
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds,
And you're gone.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds ...

Picture yourself on a train in a station,
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties,
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile,
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds ...

Wrinkly Mick

I sing with the Stones yet this tune is by Lennon,
A writer for whom I've a healthy respect,
Now he is dead, yes, yet I am still rollin',
A wrinkly rock-god of sex.

Girls still lust for me, yet not for the wealth,
Leastwise it's what they all say,
So what happens when I lose my wow-appeal,
When it goes ...?

Lucky I can buy the girl diamonds
Lucky I can buy the girl diamonds
Lucky I can buy the girl diamonds

Follow her down to the Tiffany counter
To fish out the dosh while she picks out a stone
Everyone smiles as you pass the display stands
With prices that cause you to groan.
Newspaper writers appear in the store
Eager to eye your new maiden,
Dash out the back-door and into a car
And you're gone.

Lucky I can buy the girl diamonds...
Hee... He...

Followed and worshipped in towns that I visit
I bed any young girl when I so require
Someone says, "Hey, take a look in the mirror,"
Aw shit, I look wrinkled and tired.

Lucky I can buy the girl diamonds...
Hee... He...

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Composed by the guitarist Peter Dennis Townshend, the song is the title cut on The Who's "Who Are You," the last album released before the death of ill-fated drummer Keith John Moon from an accidental overdose of prescription drugs. The hard-rocking song became one of the British band's biggest and greatest American hits, jumping to number fourteen in the U.S. Billboard charts.

Who are you?
Who, who, who, who?

I woke up in a Soho doorway
A policeman knew my name
He said you can go sleep at home tonight
If you can get up and walk away

I staggered back to the underground
And the breeze blew back my hair
I remember throwin' punches around
And preachin' from my chair

Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Tell me, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Cause I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

I took the tube back out of town
Back to the rollin' pin
I felt a little like a dying clown
With a streak of Rin Tin Tin

I stretched back and I hiccupped
And looked back on my busy day
Eleven hours in the tin pan
God, there's got to be another way

Who are you?
Ooh wa ooh wa ooh wa ooh wa ...

Who are you?
Who, who, who, who?

I know there's a place you walked
Where love falls from the trees
My heart is like a broken cup
I only feel right on my knees

I spit out like a sewer hole
Yet still receive your kiss
How can I measure up to anyone now
After such a love as this?

Just a short postscript: The album version includes an extra verse compared to the much shorter single. Additionally, a "lost verse" mix of the song was released on the very recent reissue of "Who Are You," with a completely different second verse:

I used to check my reflection
Jumping with my cheap guitar
I must have lost my direction,
Cause I ended up a superstar

One night I was in the boardroom
Affected by the human race
You can learn from my mistakes,
But you're posing in the glass again.

WHO ARE YOU? is the theme music for the hit CBS show "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation," an Emmy Award-winning television series that follows a team of Las Vegas forensic scientists as they unearth the venomous, posthumous details behind unusual, kinky deaths and cryptic, murky denouements.

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Dr. Gilbert Arthur "Gil" Grissom, Ph.D. (William Petersen): Our crack night shift team supervisor with a degree in biology from UCLA. [Note: Thinker. Workaholic. With credibility.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Catherine Willows (Marg Helgenberger): The keen blood (hemorrhage?) spatter analyst. Knockout is a second-in-command appointee. [Note: Unobtrusively beauteous face. Toothsome ex-stripper.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Warrick Brown (Gary Dourdan): The funky audio-video analyst cum authenticator. [Note: A former "unlucky" gambler.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Nicholas "Nick" Stokes (George Eads): The key hair and fiber analyst. [Note: Former baseball player with a degree in criminal law.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Sara Sidle (Jorja Fox): The outspoken, unhappy materials and element analyst. [Note: Weepy, heavy outlook. Was with the San Francisco coroner.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Gregory "Greg" Sanders (Eric Szmanda): Formerly the lab's peppy DNA technician; became a full-fledged CSI. [Note: Audiophile. Funny, hotfooted phenomenon.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Dr. Albert "Al" Robbins (Robert David Hall): The eerie head county coroner. [Note: A stuffy, mature baldhead (needs toupee?). Monotonous. "Weak-kneed" (interpreted as "amputations").]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

David Hodges (Wallace Langham): The pesky, talkative, noisome lab technician. [Note: A wee kooky. Reeks of unctuous ingenuity.]

(Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

Det. Capt. James "Jim" Brass (Paul Guilfoyle): The by-the-book, bureaucratic (yet tweedy) chief of the unit then. [Note: Went back meritoriously to the police homicide department here.]

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Once upon a time, long ago and far away, a cat fell in love with a very handsome, good-looking young man, and pleaded with Venus to change her into a woman.

"I should've thought," said Venus, with some irritation, "you might make a trifling transformation like that, without having to bother me. Now cat, go thence... be a woman."

Afterwards, wanting to see if the change had been completed, Venus caused a mouse to appear, whereupon the woman shrieked, and cried, making such a spectacle of herself that the young man would not marry her.



The King of Madagao, being engaged in a dispute with the King of Bornegascar, wrote to him: "Before proceeding further in this matter, I demand the recall of your Minister from the Capital."

Enraged by this impossible demand, the King of Bornegascar replied: "I shall not recall my Minister. And moreover, if you do not immediately retract your demand, I shall withdraw him!"

This threat so terrified the King of Madagao, that in hastening to comply he fell over his own feet, thus breaking the Third Commandment.


A married woman, whose unfortunate young lover, a gentle Hawaiian, was planning to reform by running away, vowed to get her revenge: found a gun, then shot him in the head, dead.

"Oh, what d'you do that for, Ma'am?" asked a man of Law, sauntering past.

"Cause," replied the married woman, "in truth, he wasn't ever a gentleman, but a vile wicked cheat; uncouth, unethical. He had even purchased a ticket to... to Chicago."

"Oh heavens, sister," said a man of God, solemnly, "you cannot hope to attempt to stop the wicked from going to Chicago by killing them.



One summer morning, two stupid dogs which had been fighting, without advantage to either, to try to get their rascally paws on a magnificent bone, finally referred their difference to a common sheep.

This timid, mild, dim-looking animal heard them talk, then after a short time considering their argument, flung their bone forcibly into a pond. "Oh! Why?" asked the mortified dogs, grim, angry from shock.

"Look, fellows," the sheep replied, "not because I am barking mad...hardly that. Me... I am a vegetarian."

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The New Colossus
Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

(Hidden From A Damnable Tormentor)

"Ellis Island isn't that far away,"
She uttered with tears in her eyes.
The blood maggots oozed from my side
As the cruel moon was on the rise.

The torn images, the decomposed mettle
Unexpectedly soaked in wretched misery
Endure the loathsome, common damage
Of a quiet hostage's oppressive memory.

Frightful flogging coerces hardship;
Languishing, or whether in pain ...
Insufferable, the awkward attempts wither
But the smallest scars will remain.

"Ellis Island," she echoed in my ear,
"Remember rises in our horizon bright.
Take my hand, we'll soon be there.
Your sweet freedom and comfort is in sight."

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Based loosely on "The Prophet"
with apologies to Kahlil Gibran


When love beckons, go follow him joyously with handstands,
Though his ways are hard and heavy.
And when his secure wings enfold you, welcome them,
Though his hidden sword might inadvertently wound you.
When he speaks believe in him,
Though his husky voice may undo your dreams
as wind lays waste the naked garden.

Even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and pokes your young branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots, jogging them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you to himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to a whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant,
And then he assigns you to his sacred sun fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the awesome secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
It is better for you that you cover your nakedness with pajamas (or at least a thong) and pass out of the threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your wet tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not, nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
Do not think you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let your desires be:
To melt and be like a loud brook that sings its melody to the night.
To deserve the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love.
And vow to bleed willingly and joyfully.
Vow to wake at dawn and give thanks for another day of loving,
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy,
To return home at eventide with gratitude,
Then to sleep in the evening with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise from your lips.


You give but little when you unload your unneeded old possessions which have not sold on eBay.
When you give from your heart and soul, you really give.
Why amass and keep locked up a houseful of odd doodads in your trunks and homes out of fear that you may need them tomorrow?
What is fear of need but need of fear? See here!
Fear of thirst when your well is full is an endless thirst not quenchable at any saloon.

Those numbskull fools who usually give little of what they have, then ruefully and only for recognition, give cursed gifts.
Those who have little and give all sense the bounty of life and have bank accounts and pocketbooks that are never empty.
Those who give consciously with joy have joy as their soul's reward.
Those who give with pain have pain as their soul's burden.
Those who do not seek joy and do not think of reward,
Give as the mute flower blossoms in the valley release their fragrance with abandon into unbound space.
Through them God seems to speak, and from behind their eyes He looks and smiles upon the earth.

To give when asked is good, better to give unasked, unbound, to the saddened, empty handed, tuneless (but not the lustful).
Looking consciously for a lost soul who can receive brings greater joy than giving.
Is there anything that your soul will not share?
Everybody is someday given something, so start now so the day of giving can be yours.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The apple trees in your orchard do not say this to you, or to the skunks in the yard.
They share selflessly so that they may live; to withhold is to die.
The person who has days and nights of life is worthy of anything else from you.
He who deserves to drink from the monsoon rains deserves a cup from your clean well.
Who are you that less lucky sufferers should have to ask you for charity?
Look at yourself, see that you deserve to be an instrument of giving.
Life gives to life, while you who think you give are a deluded dullard.

And you receivers (all of you) must not fret or place too much emphasis on gratitude, or you are bound to the person who gives to you.
Rather, mutually soar into the nearest sunset on the gifts as feathery wings.
Superficial concern about your debt is to doubt the generous donor who has the earth as mother, and unseen God as father.

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Ooh my little pretty one, pretty one.
When you gonna give me some time, Sharona?
Ooh you make my motor run, my motor run.
Gun it comin' off the line Sharona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty mind. Always get it up for the touch
of the younger kind. My my my i yi woo. M M M My Sharona

Ooh, my fatty one, my fatty one
When you gonna wake up, it's time, Sharon-a?
Ooh, I cry again, cry more again
Ooh, guns rule home tonight, don't give up.
Evil enemy minds, here, get up for hostility
of the rotten, scurvy kind...not plenum, torture momentum
My my my i yi woo M M M My poor Sharon-a?

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Time's Best 100 Books of All Time Crossword

The subject of this BIG crossword rejoices a judgement of the best books since 1923. Conjecture regarding the journalized objective of the suggested 'majestic' booklist, as well as the justified judgement of liberal subject matter in Western and European works, enjoyment, knowledge of the books and the high standards of all the rejected works of the project has made many major and learned critics puzzled.


Here the relevant pages, which open in a new window:

Blank Crossword

A java version

The answers

Each gifted author attached penned a piece that constituted being committed to the judge's list.

Items are fiction though some have thought to have effectuated the ideologies, thought, attitude and the themes of their time to effect.

Hence, to be effective -to succeed - competitors detect the fiction title the author penned as attested by the petty, tedious nitwits from the Time Institute committee that selected the Top 100 Books since the twenties.

Get the coffee, fight the effect of fatigue and get to it.

2. Thomas Pynchon
4. Cather (S)
5. Kurt Vonnegut
7. Thomas Pynchon
10. Richard Ford
12. Raymond Chandler
18. Robert Graves
20. Graham Greene
21. Paul Bowles
22. Doris Lessing
25. Smith (S)
31. Lowry (S)
35. Joan Didion
36. Jean Rhys
38. Henry Miller
39. Toni Morrison
40. Graham Greene
42. Martin Amis
44. Dick (S)
45. A.S. Byatt
47. Kosinski (S)
48. Neal Stephenson
52. James Agee
53. Henry Green
56. Saul Bellow
60. Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons
62. Evelyn Waugh
67. Joseph Heller
68. John Cheever
70. Nathanael West
71. Henry Roth
72. Theodore Dreiser
74. Amis (S)
75. Zora Neale Hurston
79. Thornton Wilder
81. Bernard Malamud
84. Saul Bellow
87. Marilynne Robinson
88. Christina Stead
89. F. Scott Fitzgerald
90. E.M. Forster
92. Judy Blume
93. Margaret Atwood
94. Spark (S)
95. John Steinbeck
96. Salman Rushdie
97. Carson McCullers
98. Gibson (S)
99. Styron (S)

1. E.L. Doctorow
3. J.R.R. Tolkien
6. Elizabeth Bowen
8. le Carre (S)
9. Ian McEwan
11. Don DeLillo
13. Margaret Mitchell
14. James Baldwin
15. Philip Roth
16. Faulkner (S)
17. Kerouac (S)
19. Jonathan Franzen
23. Kesey (S)
24. John Fowles
26. V.S. Naipaul
27. Iris Murdoch
28. C.S. Lewis
29. David Foster Wallace
30. George Orwell
32. Robert Stone
33. Anthony Burgess
34. Evelyn Waugh
37. Philip Roth
41. John O'Hara
43. Virginia Woolf
46. Richard Yates
49. Ernest Hemingway
50. Ralph Ellison
51. Nabokov (S)
52. Robert Penn Warren
54. Isherwood (S)
55. Anthony Powel
57. Richard Wright
58. Walker Percy
59. J.D. Salinger
61. Gaddis (S)
63. Cormac McCarthy
64. George Orwell
65. Ishiguro (S)
66. Virginia Woolf
69. Vladimir Nabokov
73. Harper Lee
76. Dashiell Hammett
77. Flann O'Brien
78. Faulkner (S)
80. Burroughs (S)
82. John Barth
83. Chinua Achebe
85. John Updike
86. Golding (S)
91. James Dickey

If (S) has been cited beside the clue, the first name of the author has been omitted.

Footnote: Don't search the Net for the site tied to this. The destitute guilt of theft won't ignite the seductive effect that finding the solution unaided might!