The Special Category

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

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Boney M.

There lived a certain man in Russia long ago
He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow
Most people looked at him with terror and with fear
But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear
He could preach the bible like a preacher
Full of ecstasy and fire
But he also was the kind of teacher
Women would desire

Lover of the Russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Russia's greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on

He ruled the Russian land and never mind the Tsar
But the kasachok he danced really wunderbar
In all affairs of state he was the man to please
But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze
For the queen he was no wheeler dealer
Though she'd heard the things he'd done
She believed he was a holy healer
Who would heal her son

Lover of the Russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Russia's greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on

But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger
for power became known to more and more people,
the demands to do something about this outrageous
man became louder and louder.

"This man's just got to go!" declared his enemies
But the ladies begged "Don't you try to do it, please"
No doubt this Rasputin had lots of hidden charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms
Then one night some men of higher standing
Set a trap, they're not to blame
"Come to visit us" they kept demanding
And he really came

Lover of the Russian queen
They put some poison into his wine
Ra-Ra Rasputin
Russia's greatest love machine
He drank it all and said "I feel fine"

Lover of the Russian queen
They didn't quit, they wanted his head
Russia's greatest love machine
And so they shot him till he was dead

(Spoken:) Oh, those Russians...


Lots of mighty men ruled Russia through the ages,
Some were really bad and their eyes were full of rage,
There was Lenin, Stalin, Kosygin and Khrushchev,
Brezhnev, Yeltsin and Mikhail Gorbachev,
Each would teach the dogma as a teacher,
Full of fervour and of power,
Yet no one was like the regal leader
That we see there now.

Vladimir Putin,
Russia's President supreme,
That quiet dude, he's rather macho.
Vladimir Putin
Huntin, shootin' and fishin'
He sure can throw an action-man pose.

When he's on a horse he's like a rod of iron,
He's a fearless leader that you can rely on,
Doesn't make a fuss and never banged a table,
But he'll quietly squash you, yes, because he's able.
He would scare most anyone at all with
One glowering, laser look,
He could send Obama into orbit,
With just one left hook.

Vladimir Putin,
Russia's President supreme,
That quiet dude, he's rather macho.
Vladimir Putin
Huntin, shootin' and fishin'
He sure can throw an action-man pose.

[Ah, when he bares that swell chest, I swear
women all go ga-ga and wish they were there,
he does a butterfly stroke as good as any athlete
and goes whitewater rafting; a rare feat. What a star!]

Leader, George Bush roared, "He's harder than a base bat,
"Yeah, compared to him, Saddam was a tabby cat!
"He has those weapons of 'mass production' too,
"Gee, the whole trouble is, I just don't know what to do!"
Loser George has gone and he's lost all his swagger,
Yet the Red head lingers there,
Respected lots more than the Yankee bragger,
A fearless Russian bear.

Vladimir Putin,
Russia's President supreme,
That quiet dude, he's rather macho.
Vladimir Putin
Huntin, shootin' and fishin'
He sure can throw an action-man's pose.

Vladimir Putin,
Russia's President supreme,
That quiet dude, he's rather macho.
Vladimir Putin
Huntin, shootin' and fishin'
He sure can throw an action-man's pose.

Goodness! What a Leader!

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I Hear America Singing
(Walt Whitman)

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning,
or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--
Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

I Thought I Heard America Moan in Anguish
(A Thinker's Insights)

With her Senate kowtowing to hawkish hankerings,
Kowtowing to lobbyists' earmarked ambitions,
Washington big shots falsifying statements,
Many men losing wages and money or pensions,
The schoolteacher losing her health benefits,
Manufacturing, technology - anything - offshored to Asia,
Neighborhood businesses, merchant markets shrinking,
Whole boomtown neighborhoods falling in poverty,
Salaries the lowest share of the nation's GDP since the nineteen-twenties,
Home mortgage foreclosures per month the highest on record,
Beginning earnings of college and high school graduates downgraded,
Savings hit the lowest since the height of the Great Depression,
This tough nation's highways, harbors, subways soon disintegrating,
I thought I heard America moan in anguish.

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A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale

A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night

A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road

A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.

(And it is a long one!)

A streak, a stroke,
It's the skill of the rhyme.
It's the blush of a love,
Had a wonderful time!

It's an echo of old,
And it's loud, it's the drum,
It's a bang, it's a roll;
It's a pluck, it's a strum.

The page when it turns,
A break in the line,
The pause in the verse,
A tale by design.

The shake of the head,
A skip, a dance,
A look, a wink,
It is modern romance.

It's the quickening pulse,
It's the beat of the bass,
It's a dash, it's a walk
It's a shot, it's a pace.

And this song from Brazil
From A. Carlos Jobim,
It's a version I made,
A tribute to him.

The stress, the shriek,
The gang and the band,
The noise of the crowd,
A splendid hand.

A nod, a nix,
A shuffling of tone,
A fifth, a flight,
The flow of a drone.

The pitch of the play,
The sway of the swing,
The fiddle in the suite,
It's a bow, it's a string.

A puff, a poof,
A scale, a note,
A strength, a stint,
The sound from the throat.

A grandness of ninths
In the lone afterglow;
The stand of the tune
In the heart of the show.

The gong, the gasp,
A riff, a lick,
It's a prank, it's a prod,
It's the truth, it's the kick!

The thrust of the steel,
The fire in me,
And the plan that I forged,
And the hole and the key.

Alive, again,
The push, the pound,
The depth, the draft,
The reason of sound.

And this work that we like
From A. Carlos Jobim
It's a version I wrote,
A tribute to him.

A tenth, a track,
It's the fun of the Glee;
It's the soft of a hush,
It's a fine melody.

A friend, a youth
It is full, it is whole,
It's a dent in your heart;
Soothed a spark in your soul.

A blast, a joy,
It's hot, a hit,
Insane and odd,
A lusty dose of wit.

A wheel, a rhythm,
A stick, a snare,
A flash, a flutter,
A blast, a blare.

The sign on the nail,
A bridge and a fret,
In the annals of life
That favorite duet!

And this ditty I love
From A. Carlos Jobim,
It's a version I made,
A tribute to him.

A halt, a rest,
The end of the score,
The hunt of a deal,
A piece I adore.

A sonnet of sense,
A splash, an air,
A snatch, a snap,
It's the pick of the pair!

Yes, this tune from Brazil
From A. Carlos Jobim,
It's a version I wrote,
A tribute to him.

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Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn

From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

(From A Fund Of Love)

Our childhood is a short-term loan,
To be repaid when we have grown;
Our children are a moment's gift,
That we may one day set adrift
On life's harsh seas in stormy weather,
With no connective link or tether.
And we, the lighthouse lamp that burns,
For them to find when they return.
The child that left might yet come home,
But not for good, and just on loan.

Their lives flash by, and soon do ours,
And memory dims, like fading flowers;
Fond moments of their childhood fun
Then mark fond moments of our own.
Perhaps, some sunny Mother's Day,
If they've a mind to come my way,
They'll stop a moment, one last time,
To linger, look and find this line
Above my grave, carved in the stone:
'Life Is But A Short-Term Loan'.

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A Busy Day in Heaven

Three men died and stood in line for a meeting with St. Peter to get into Heaven. Apparently it had been a pretty busy day, though, so St. Peter had to tell the first one, "Heaven's getting pretty close to full today, and I've been asked to admit only people who have had particularly horrible deaths. So what's your story?"

The man replied: "Well, for a while I've suspected my wife has been cheating on me, and so today I came home early to try to catch her red-handed. Just as I came into my twenty-fifth floor apartment, I could tell something was wrong, but all my searching around didn't reveal where this other guy could have been hiding. Finally, I went out to the balcony, and sure enough, there was this man hanging off the railing, twenty-five floors above the ground! By now I was really mad, so I started beating him and kicking him, but wouldn't you know it, he wouldn't fall off. So finally I went back into my apartment and got my hammer and starting hammering on his fingers. Of course, he couldn't stand that for long, so he let go and fell--but even after twenty-five stories, he fell into bushes, stunned but okay! I couldn't stand it anymore, so I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the refrigerator, and threw it over the edge where it landed on him, killing him instantly. But all that extra stress and anger got to me, and I had a heart attack and died right there on the balcony."

Benevolent St. Peter agreed, "Ah, son, that sounds like a noteworthy rotten day to me!"

The second man came up and St. Peter again noted that Heaven was totally overflowing and asked for his story.

He admitted, "It's been a very strange day! You see, I live on the twenty-seventh floor of an apartment building. Every morning I habitually exercise out on the balcony. Well, this morning I must have slipped or something, because I fell forward over the edge. But then I was lucky and my left hand caught the railing of the balcony on the twenty-fifth floor below. I knew I couldn't hold on for very long, when suddenly a man burst out onto the balcony. Hurrah! I thought I was saved, when he started deliberately beating and kicking me for no reason! But I held on the best I could as he left and went into the apartment, manifested a hammer, and started pounding on me! Finally my hand gave way and I just had to let go. I got lucky again, landing barefooted in the bayberry foliage, my collarbone hurting. But while I thought I would get to the hospital and be all right, this refrigerator comes falling out of the sky and flattens me instantly! That's why I'm here."

Once again, sympathetic St. Peter warmly conceded that it was a very noteworthy death and let him in.

The third man followed and St. Peter asked for his story.

"Picture this," the third man started, "I'm hiding nude inside a refrigerator..."

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1. I fancy Tom Cruise

2. A dunce

3. Emulates Palin

4. Renters

5. Handled

6. Sang "Hit Me Baby"

7. Might K.O.?









"Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame. In keen iambics, but mild anagram." - Dryden

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A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever
(John Keats)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

Prayer of a Woman Walking Barefooted in the Sand

Oh Lord, please allow me, even for a lone moment,
To ponder the perfect rhythm of thy harmonious Creation.
Provide me, a poor barefooted woman,
With the key to unlock the mysterious secret of oneness
Hidden in everything and in every ordered movement.
In the depths of my own soul,
Where it meets with the one Universal Soul,
May I gratefully acknowledge
The obedient surrender of the sandy shore,
As each new bejeweled wave breaks,
Washing away all traces of yesterday's burdens.
The seashore vulnerably offers a lifetime of shoreline trophies obtained -
Bright shells, starfish, shiny little stones, polished pebbles and seahorses -
Obediently back to the boundless sea,
Dashed under the indelible impact of
Hurtling element molecules forming an unending
Wall of water...water...water...Water...WATER -
That transformed liquid essence of the furthest reaches
Of the feminine earth mother and the masculine sky father.
The youthful shore-bride unquestioningly surrenders
To her insatiable sea-groom's vigorous waves washing over her,
Submerging her, and breathlessly heaves a vast and sensuous sigh,
Whereupon, her sandy heart is thoroughly cleansed and thoroughly purified,
And subsequently is metamorphosed into a beautified manifestation
Of the timeless and infinite Eternal Now.

Oh, Lord, please allow me to observe the sweet symbiotic play of nature -
The splendid blazing red sunset hues, the seasonally violent weather,
The insistent circling shore birds, the agitated swooping seagulls,
The remarkable fish and other sea life;
To share, spellbound, a vision: the idea of perfect harmonious peace,
Which is wrought of acquiescence to the mystifying greater force
That shapes nature's destiny, and without which none of this would have any form.
Just as the good Lord speaks to us in this remarkable way,
Giving us tangible clues to our own means of rejoining with Him,
Similarly, allow this woman's admittedly foolish monkey-mind to always remember
The loyal unwearying humility of the devoted shore-bride to her groom,
And just as every moment another formidable white-headed wave breaking shoreward
Washes away the obsolete debris of her yesterdays past,
Please permit a polished illuminated reflection of purity
To shine upon this barefooted woman's weary soul.
Furthermore, oh Lord, allow me then to always be thankful
For thy abundant and generous Grace,
To awaken my mind to the blissful joy of total absorption in Thee,
And to ultimate Enlightenment.

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[A Dickinson poem about a snake anagrammed into a sonnet unmasking the real snake in the book of Genesis; the snake is also revealed graphically in the anagram's poem body once all the words containing an S are colored green]

The Snake
(By Emily Dickinson)

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him - did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun -
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

Indications of the Snake in the Oasis
(The view of a hidden fiend)

The tale of Eden in the Book, I find,
Blamed poor Eve or the reptile for wrongdoing -
But, faced with a pronouncement so unkind,
I'd hint the old accounts need some reviewing.
What urged that treacherous or rash portrayal,
From men - who sure can best it as a clan?
They're common boys who seek a sly betrayal,
They'll toil to risk a kiss - sans any plan;
Their ardor is a soft, engrossing fraud,
Their honor is an easy, shallow con...
It would be sad to hiss at women "flawed",
Omitting the vignettes I touched upon.
That one cool serpent, loathed in every way,
Can be foul Adam - gazing at the prey.