901

An Arab had spent several long days wandering the desert without locating any water. In the end, things got so bad that his camel died of thirst.

He crawled through the sands, quite certain that he was drawing his last breath, when suddenly he saw something shiny poking up from the sand several yards ahead.

He crawled over to the article, pulled it out of the sand, and saw that he had unearthed a Manischewitz wine bottle. And it appeared that there might even be a drop or two left in the bottle!

He unscrewed the top... and suddenly... out popped a genie! But this was no ordinary genie. Not at all. This appeared to be a Chasidic Rabbi, complete with black alpaca coat and black hat, and full side curls.

'Hello, hello! said the genie, 'Vell kiddo, you know how things vork. You got three vishes.'

'I'm not going to trust you, said the Arab. 'I'm not going to trust a Jewish genie!'

'Vot you got to lose? Looks to me you're a goner anyvay!'

He thought for a minute and decided that the genie was right. 'Okay then, I would like to be in a lush oasis, with lots of food and cold drinks.'

POOF!

Suddenly, the Arab found himself in the most green and lush place he'd ever seen and he was surrounded by jugs of chilled wine and platters of delicacies.

'Ok kiddo, vot's your second vish?'

'My second wish is that I were rich beyond all my wildest dreams.'

POOF!

Suddenly he found himself surrounded by treasure chests, all filled with rare old coins and precious gems.

'Okay kiddo, you got vone more vish. Better you should make this a really good vone!'

After contemplating for a moment, the Arab said, 'Ok... I wish that no matter where I go, beautiful women will always need and want me!'

POOF!

He was turned into a tampon.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY:

If you're an Arab doing business with a Jewish genie, there's going to be a string attached.

An old prospector shuffled into town trailing his tired old mule behind him, and made straight for the saloon to clear his parched throat. He walked up to the hitch rail and tied the docile mule to it. As he stood there, brushing dust from his face and clothes, a young cowboy stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

He looked at the old man and guffawed, "Say, old timer, have you ever danced a jig?" The old man looked up at him and said, "No, I can't say I've ever wanted to."

A crowd started to gather as the boozy cowboy grinned and said, "Aw gee, you haven't? Well, you are gonna dance a jig now," and started firing indiscriminately at the old man's feet. The prospector, not wishing to have his toes blown off piecemeal, started jumping about like a flea on a hot skillet. Everybody was laughing, fit to be tied.

When his last bullet had been fired, the laughing gunslinger holstered his gun and turned to go back in the saloon. With that, the prospector went to his mule, withdrew a double-barrelled shotgun out of his backpack, and cocked both hammers. The loud clicks carried audibly in the desert air.

The crowd immediately stopped laughing. The gunslinger heard the sounds too, and turned around very slowly. The silence was almost deafening. The crowd watched as he stared at the gaping holes of those twin barrels. The shotgun never wavered in the old man's grip, as he quietly said, "Boy, have you ever kissed a mule’s ass?"

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, "No sir... but I've always wanted to."

THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS:

Do not waste vital ammunition.

Avoid whiskey, as it makes you think you are smarter than you are.

Always be sure you know who possesses the power.

Do not piss off old men; they didn't reach that ripe age in life by being stupid.

902

[The title of the anagram "MR. GORBACHEV, TEAR THIS WALL DOWN" is an actual quote from a 1987 speech given by President Reagan at the Brandenburg Gate on the 750th anniversary of (the then divided) Berlin. Two years later, the East German government, after several weeks of civil unrest, announced on NOVEMBER NINE, 1989 that all German Democratic Republic citizens could visit West Germany and West Berlin. That said date (which serves as the anagram's acrostic constraint) marked the beginning of the fall of the Berlin Wall, with a euphoric public and souvenir hunters chipping away parts of the 28-year-old barrier, eventually paving the way for German reunification, which was formally concluded on October 3, 1990.]

NOVEMBER
Elizabeth Coatsworth

November comes,
And November goes
With the last red berries
And the first white snows,

With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.

MR. GORBACHEV, TEAR THIS WALL DOWN

No man's land
On Checkpoint Charlie
Vowed to cut
East from West Germany.

Minefields between
Broke the twisted site.
Ever best, this banishes
Rhythms of the night.

Nazi-strengthened
Iron curtains disintegrate
Next, both links
End at Brandenburg Gate.

[Poem from here]

903

ON APPROACHING ITALY
A Sonnet by Oscar Wilde

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,
Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
And when from out the mountain's heart I came
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:
And musing on the marvel of thy fame
I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair,
And in the orchards every twining spray
Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
But when I knew that far away at Rome
In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
I wept to see the land so very fair.

ON APPROACHING FISCAL RUIN
by Silvio Berlusconi

I reached that summit for which I'd yearned
Then viewed a nation's splendour below,
And whooped, "I'll make Italy great, I know!
Let me share these wisdoms I have discerned,
I can amaze you with what I have learned.
Ah, stand by me, and make Italy grow,

Make her mighty and famous, and put her on show!
Yield to a passion that always has burned!"

It's true many lovers went hot to my bed,
There was an affair (or perhaps quite a few)
And now it's gone wrong, hah! it's me that they name!
Let me stay on and fight now to relight the flame,
Italia's fire can flare skyward, anew
And never be snuffed out or dead!

904

November
by Thomas Hood

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

My Type of November
by No Enmity

Hot spiced cider drinks--no?
Forty more nightly winks--no?
The season for honeymoons--no?
Or spontaneous afternoons--no?

Curl up with a gift book--no?
In a soft bedroom nook--no?
Telephone a companion--no?
Snowshoe in the canyon--no?

We play Monopoly indoors--no?
In flannel winter drawers--no?
Referee football on a barstool--no?
Or on the field at school--no?

Moonbeams on cobblestone--no?
Silent meditation alone--no?
Witty anagrams for fun--no?
See a comedy film rerun--no?

Norwegian evergreens pruned--no?
Town commons tree-festooned--no?
A bounteous Thanksgiving--no?
When there's cheeriness in living--no?

905

November by Sara Teasdale

The world is tired, the year is old,
The little leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Among the rushes dry.

Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our poor love pass
Like leaves along the wind.

Die, I Have To Die by ned

Nirvana leaks the hallowed gold,
Overtly colors God's old sky,
Vignettes reveal that winter's hold
Enshrouds throughout aged light.

Morose reprise reclaims, alas,
Beloved heat whose grip we find,
Erodes away like yellowed glass
Regaled in skittish wind.

906

[A song by Amy Winehouse anagrammed into another song from her perspective, which also contains a visual tribute, detailed below:]

The full lyrics of the song "Tears Dry On Their Own"
written and performed by Amy Jade Winehouse

All I can ever be to you
Is the darkness that we knew
And this regret I got accustomed to
Once it was so right
When we were at our high
Waiting for you in the hotel at night
I knew I hadn't met my match
But every moment we could snatch
I don't know why I got so attached
It's my responsibility
And you don't owe nothing to me
But to walk away I have no capacity

[Chorus]
He walks away
The sun goes down
He takes the day, but I'm grown
And in your wake, in this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

I don't understand
Why do I stress the man
When there's so many bigger things at hand
We could've never had it all
We had to hit a wall
So this is inevitable withdrawal
Even if I stop wanting you
And perspective pushes through
I'll be some next man's other woman soon
I can't play myself again
I should just be my own best friend
Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men

[Chorus]
He walks away
The sun goes down
He takes the day, but I'm grown
And in your wake, in this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

So we are history
Your shadow covers me
The sky above ablaze

[Chorus]
He walks away
The sun goes down
He takes the day, but I'm grown
And in your wake, in this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

I wish I could say no regrets
And no emotional debts
'Cause as we kiss goodbye, the sun sets
So we are history
Your shadow covers me
The sky above ablaze, that only lovers see

[Chorus]
He walks away
The sun goes down
He takes the day, but I'm grown
And in your wake, my blue shade
My tears dry on their own

He walks away
The sun goes down
He takes the day but I am grown
And in your wake
My deep shame
My tears dry on their own... [Repeated]

Waking up with this funny sensation,
Trying to stand, but the body's too weak.
This crazy heart's working anyway, baby,
The soul won't leave if it can speak.
It seems so nice, the sound I hear near death,
That's why this song is but a wounded breath.
Those who just love me for me earnestly
Sense why it moves me - sound set them free;
They may even dig my shadowy career...
The ones unmoved dehumanise those tears.
The shady aches in wounds I carry still
Can someday fade; no, no, I know they will,
But nowadays, your gal's a damaged star;
The eyeshadow cannot hide the wretched scar.
Old me, new me - none would cure the curse,
The way that I chose makes the atmosphere much worse;
That's why your sweetheart would soon be gone -
Even the rhythm won't renew these bones...
Looking up with this awkward sensation,
Dying to hear a pulse, but losing control.
The old brain I harmed works anyway, baby,
The soul won't go before it's whole.
Okay, I know it's time, but should I?
Okay, I should withdraw, but would I?
Baby, I know, death is the key to my art
Though I know I go a bit far with my heart;
Always a diva, I played a dope or an arse,
Waking in yards and doing Amstel in bars...
Delight me, sweety; can we ditch my 'hood
Then buy us a dreary new duplex in Hollywood?
Well, not me, handsome; harmony is hard;
Your cheer is just a dated vow in that regard:
Sugar, could we restore a love we knew?
Would it gain me a hug I know is true?
It never can - my human mask is wrecked,
The sunny sky's a haven for my weary neck;
Death turns into a land of no stress
That wakens while I drown in sudden happiness...
Going up with this awesome sensation,
Trying to move, but the body's not there.
These crazy wings are working anyway, baby,
The soul's not gone. It's everywhere.

[The visual aspect: when the song is monospaced and only the words that are derived from the letter-set AMY JADE WINEHOUSE are highlighted, a smaller display will look like this:]