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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901

EL PASO
By
Marty Robbins

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina;
Music would play and Felina would whirl.

Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina,
Wicked and evil while casting a spell.
My love was deep for this Mexican maiden;
I was in love but in vain, I could tell.

One night a wild young cowboy came in,
Wild as the West Texas wind.
Dashing and daring,
A drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina,
The girl that I loved.

So in anger I

Challenged his right for the love of this maiden.
Down went his hand for the gun that he wore.
My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat;
The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.

Just for a moment I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the foul evil deed I had done.
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance and that was to run.

Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran,
Out where the horses were tied.
I caught a good one.
It looked like it could run.
Up on its back
And away I did ride,

Just as fast as I

Could from the West Texas town of El Paso
Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.

Back in El Paso my life would be worthless.
Everything's gone in life; nothing is left.
It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden
My love is stronger than my fear of death.

I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow
A bullet may find me.
Tonight nothing's worse than this
Pain in my heart.

And at last here I

Am on the hill overlooking El Paso;
I can see Rosa's cantina below.
My love is strong and it pushes me onward.
Down off the hill to Felina I go.

Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys;
Off to my left ride a dozen or more.
Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me.
I have to make it to Rosa's back door.

Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel
A deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying
To stay in the saddle,
I'm getting weary,
Unable to ride.

But my love for

Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen,
Though I am weary I can't stop to rest.
I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle.
I feel the bullet go deep in my chest.

From out of nowhere Felina has found me,
Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side.
Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for,
One little kiss and Felina,
Good-bye.

EL PUSO

Out in Barns Green down in Horsham, West Sussex,
I had a duel with one ornery gent,
He was the cruel, one 'n' only El Puso
I came intent on a fight to the end.

There in an inn full of hillbilly yokels,
The ale looked like gnat's pee 'n' tasted the same
I arrived early to check on the venue,
Armed, set to kill, in this 'High Noon' endgame.

All of a sudden the door opened wide,
Someone came in from the night,
It was El Puso
Arriving with gusto,
The glint in his eye
Was a knife in my heart.

So I rose from my

Chair and I challenged him: "Show what you've got man,"
Down flew his hand, moving fast as a fox,
Before I knew it he delved in his bum-bag,
Drew out, like lighting... an old Scrabble box.

Just for one moment the whole room fell silent,
All I could hear was the beat of my heart,
Many words flew through my mind as I stood there,
I chose only two and I said them: "Let's start."

Before I knew it a table was cleared,
We both got chairs and sat down,
From my bag I took
My old Scrabble Wordbook,
He snarled, "Best of one."
My reply was a frown.

Then we each chose our

Tiles from the tile-bag, set them on tile-racks,
I looked at them once and got set to attack.

He tossed a coin in the air, and I cried "Tails!"
It came down heads and he sniggered, "First blood,"
He laid his tiles and he made 'FOXED' (for forty)
All I could make with my letters was 'MUD',

As we continued the game got more mean,
Puso played out of his skin,
I was still laggin' 'n'
My brain was flaggin'
While he laid words such as
'FIZGIG' and 'DJINN'.

Then at last I

Withdrew from the tile-bag the letter I longed for,
(Suffice to say, it's the one after 'P')
This only briefly revived my ill-fortune,
I also pulled out five 'I's and a 'V'.

A crowd had gathered, I heard someone giggling,
Puso was now fifty-five points in front,
I notched sixty-four off a great double-triple,
I took the lead, and I heard Puso grunt.

He tagged an 'S' onto 'CIVIC' and made
'CIVICS' to score thirty-two,
Though I kept smilin'
Inside I was rilin',
I now held four 'I's,
Two 'O's and a 'U'.

So in anger I

Voiced my annoyance, changed my f***ing letters,
Effing 'n' blinding so uncivilly,
Then, all in a moment of insanity,
Next thing, he'd finished and beat me by three!

From out of nowhere El Puso has won it,
Funny how fortune can dive in that way
I said, "You've got me, and I have to pay," he said
"Buy me a lager," so I said,
"Okay."


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902

Sounds Of Silence
Lyrics by the duo Simon and Garfunkel

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence

The Sounds of Chickens

Hello pillow, my old friend
It's that sleepless time again
I'm wondering, turning, tossing
Why the chickens make their crossing
Is it a passionate intent or annual mode
Impelling them into the road?
I hear the sound of chickens

In restless dreams I lie alone
Wondering where the little peeps had flown
Do they mingle with the ganders
To flee from Colonel Sanders
And wanton men that are twisted and obsessed
With pale white meat breasts
I hear the sound of chickens

And in the dimming light I saw
Ten thousand fowls, maybe more
Bee-lining into every main highway
Avenue, residential street, and byway
Spanning lanes with no patrols or metal guards
Splat! all flattened by cars
And that's the sound of stillness

But the people hoped and prayed
For the eggs that won't be laid
As females are plummeting at top speed
They do not wish to be fricasseed
And fried with salt, pepper, and carrot
Their senses would not bear it
I hear the sounds of chickens

"Peeps", said I, "You do not know
You need to stroll a highway slow
If you do not look and see both ways
You'll get run down by a Chevrolet
And if you should get flattened by a Chev
We will dine on Chicken Kiev"
And I'll hear the sounds of chickens


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903

[In the poem below all three stanzas are mutual anagrams. In addition, the first stanza is a word-length mnemonic for the first 22 digits of the golden ratio, phi (1.618033988749894848204...), the second stanza is a mnemonic for the first 26 digits of e (2.7182818284590452353602874...), and the third stanza gives the first 29 digits of pi (3.1415926535897932384626433832). The usual rule applies - 0 digits are represented by a 10-letter word.]

I marred a groaning silhouette,
saw dim abhorrent freedoms cemented forever,
till blackened paranoia bewitched this shadowed roof,
smashing my despondent soul.

In meadows I remember my orations:
a forecast of degraded love,
words cadential proceeding from Hades
to the heart now shrunk,
sublimated in helpless, binding hate.

=

You, a tree, a field overblown in summer,
words and looks gathered, solicited, chanced,
reminders now of the pleasing past
bathed in bright heat and sad memories for me.


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904

The Anagrammy.com Guide for the Complete Noob.

1. Post! But not too often.

Lurk a little until you get the the hang of things. But if you just lurk forever, you won't get any experience or feedback. So, yes, get out there and happily post some 'grams! But not too many all at once. The surest way to annoy the collective forum is to post several mediocre 'grams all in a row.

Not that all of your posts will happen to be mediocre rubbish, but you're a noob right? They're not all going to be winners unless you're already the World's Greatest Anagrammatist[TM]. (But then you wouldn't be reading this, would you Miss Freeman?)

If you must post several at once, it is better to place them into one single long post, titled: I had to post these all RIGHT NOW or I'd have pissed myself from the excitement!!!

Failure to follow this rule may result in snarky comments from all over the world. Well, mostly Australia and Canada.

2. If you see a good 'gram, look for a better one.

Apparently, some people who have just discovered anagramming software for the first time - be it a website like Wordsmith, or a program like Anagram Artist - seem to think that nobody else has ever used such amazing magical tools.

"Huh? Check this out! Can you believe it? 'The Garden of Eden' is an anagram of 'Gee! Darned hot fen!' I MUST share this discovery with the world!!"

Look, we all remember our first beer too, and we do share the enthusiasm of the ingénue. (We share it, but we don't necessarily like it.)

So please, just calm down and then read the FAQ, particularly the section on the Hallmarks of a Good Anagram.

3. Don't take it personally.

The anagramming community is small but talented; the members here literally are the world's greatest anagrammatists [not TM]. It isn't surprising if your fledgling efforts aren't anything quite up to par yet.

It is hard to discover an anagram worthy of NOMination. (No, "I NOM nation" isn't a good 'gram unless you are nedesto or rp.) It doesn't mean we hate you (well... depending...)

So refer back to rule #2; is it really that good an anagram or should I have searched for better ones? Don't take it personally or you'll inevitably end up leaving in a disgruntled huff, which no one wants (okay, sometimes we want that).

Remember rule #1 which is: Accept the things you can't change and change the things you can. Uh, sorry, that's the Serenity Prayer.

4. About the categories

GENERAL - The most worthwhile place for a noob to attempt a start. It's all good; husbands, tattoos, snowmen... anything! The top three, at minimum, are considered "wins" (although only the first gets to compete in the year-end Grand Anagrammies). Sometimes a tie for third means four anagrams "win". Also, the Awardmaster's Choice Award is frequently given to fourth place. And sometimes both happen; five "wins" in GENERAL is documented. Generally speaking (no pun intended) shorter anagrams are favored in this category, more so than any other.

ENTERTAINMENT - If you discover a fortuitous anagram dealing with James Bond and the Mona Lisa, you're keystrokes away from a landslide win. Good luck!

TOPICAL - Due to the psychological phenomenon of "recency", anagrams toward the end of the month about the latest international events tend to be more favored.

PEOPLES NAMES - The less qualifiers the better. Titles and such are fine, but if you are trying to awkwardly anagram: "Tatiana, wettest swimsuit model who I twitter about"... well, unfortunately you'd better go back to the Hallmarks. (Still, go ahead and post links to the swimsuit girl anyway.) George Bush is always very popular here.

OTHER NAMES - Probably the smallest universe to anagram from, if for no other reason than that recognizability is key here. Naturally, anything about Apple or McDonald's is favored.

MEDIUM - Whoa! You're moving from amateurism up to semi-pro territory now! As you've got more than twice the letter-limit of the "short" categories, your 'grams should be accordingly tighter, or the result will be a lukewarm reception. Lukewarm at most.

ANAGRAMMY CHALLENGE - These tend to be longer than the "short" categories, hence more challenging. But, admittedly, also a lot of fun. The NOMs tend to be a bit more generous too.

LONG - Jokes and top-ten lists usually rule the roost. The golden rule for top-end jokes is they have to be fundamentally funny.

SPECIAL - Not for the unadventurous! The top three are also "wins", but the competition is notoriously - skillfully - fierce.

RUDE - Do remember to post your offensively disgusting sexually-explicit vulgar filth about naked whoremongers in the right section. Especially if it has the "C" word; many regulars absolutely despise anything to do with Chomsky.


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905

"The Hokey-Pokey" as Shakespeare would have written it
by Jeff Brechlin

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.

The Hokey-Pokey
Rosie needs fresh and shiny artwork;
Perhaps the men here can work and work,
Hence, redefine childhood TV nonsense,
This woman's inner vision to enhance.
Can we persevere and pass her test,
When Jimmy B. conveyed it best?

"I just can't keep up with the Nasdaq,
Who got sold and bought;
I've got to take my lunch break,
But I'll leave you with a little for thought.

Maybe it's all too simple
For our brains to figure it out;
What if the hokey-pokey
Is all it really is about?"


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906

A good fairy was flying over the African plains one afternoon when she heard a soft crying below. She landed to investigate and saw a little yellow toad sobbing its heart out. The fairy asked him why he was crying.

"None of the other toads'll let me join in their toad games, all because I'm not green," he cried.

"Don't be sad," she smiled, and with a wave of her magic wand, turned the toad green. The toad admired himself delightedly, but was surprised to see that his willy was still yellow.

He asked the fairy about it but she said, "I'm sorry, but there are some things a fairy just can't do. If you find the wizard, he can fix it for you."

The toad croaked a happy 'thanks!' and hopped off to see the wizard.

Feeling like an extra-good Samaritan, the fairy took to the skies again and soon heard more crying, but this time much louder. Down she flew, only to discover a pink rhino. Although she'd already guessed the answer, she asked why he was crying.

"None of the other rhinos'll let me join in their games, all because I'm not grey," he said. So, once again she waved the magic wand and turned it grey.

The rhino was happily examining himself when he saw that his willy was still a vivid pink. He asked the fairy about it and she said: "I'm afraid there are some things a fairy just can't do. If you find the wizard, he can fix it for you."

The animal burst into tears again. "But I don't know how to find him," he wept.

"Ah," said the fairy, pointing back across the plain, "that's simple. If you're off to see the wizard, you want to follow the yellow-pricked toad."

One day, a young snail inherited lots of money in his father's Will. He was so fed up with having his undignified reputation for being slow and inferior that he decided he'd get himself a fast motor car to compensate.

After checking out the market, he decided he preferred the nifty Japanese Hidari Fifty-Z, which was well-nigh the finest buy on the market, going from nought-to-sixty in just four seconds flat.

He headed off to 'Wheels 'R' Us', his neighborhood Hidari showroom, and asked about availability. The dealer was only too happy to assist him, especially after seeing his Platinum Mastercard and he assured him that he would have his car ready and waiting the following morning.

"Okay," agreed the snail, "it is a deal. But can you rebadge it for me as a Fifty-S? Just change the paintwork, alter the initial 'Z' to an initial 'S' and amend the badge at the back."

"Well, I guess so," sniffed the dealer, "but we'd charge extra. Why do you want it redone anyway?"

The snail smirked, "I am a high-flier, I can afford to pay the extra. The reason is, the 'S' stands for 'snail'. It is really important to me that everybody who sees me breezing past will know who is driving the car."

The salesman said, "Okay, fair enough, if this is how you want it, I'll do it," and so the deal was finalised.

The snail picked up his motor next day at the showroom and could be seen thereafter driving joyfully down the highways and byways in it. When he zoomed by, everyone would realise who it was and they'd look at each other and remark...

"Wow! Look at that S-car go!"


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907

THE IDES OF MARCH
by Marcella Remund

The seer was right to warn us,
beware the ides of March.
It’s a dangerous time, peering
through iced windows at the jeweled
tease of crocus and daffodil.
We've weathered another season
of deep-freeze, locked up tight
in muscle and mind. We're tired
of winter’s grey and gritty leftovers.
But this is no time to get careless,
toss a floorboard heater through
the beveled glass and go out,
where Spring flashes her flannel petticoat
embroidered in pinks and greens,
leaves us gaping, breathless,
in air still cold as a knife blade,
stripping off the down.

THE IDES OF MARCH

We all slept. Greed will make us
Reckless. "Read this at once.
There are things in it
Important for you to see."
Will we ignore the foreknowledge
In Artemidoros' letter?
Julius Caesar said, "The Ides of March
Have come!" The seer frowned,
"Ay, Caesar; but not gone."
Brutus' group of conspirators
Stabbed him to death. Offed.
Dragged. Snuffed in the Roman Senate.
Beware, Assad! March fifteen can be the end.
The dwindling Brazil dictatorship stepped down,
Fell, fled on that date. The whole restless world
Is revolving. We see serfs digging a deep grave.
The Syrian uprising has begun.


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908

Prayer of the Procrastinator

I hesitate to make a list
of all the countless deals I've missed;
Bonanzas that were in my grip,
I watched through my fingers slip
The windfalls which I should have
Bought
Were lost because I over thought;
I thought of this, I thought of that
I could have sworn I smelled a rat,
and while I thought things over twice
another grabbed them at the price;
It seems I always hesitate
then make up my mind much too late.
A very cautious man am I
and that is why I never buy.

How Nassau and how Suffolk grew;
North Jersey! Statton Island too!
When others called those sprawling farms
and welcomed deals with open arms;
A corner here, ten acres there,
compounding values year by year,
I chose to think and as I thought
they bought the deals I should have
Bought
The golden chances I had then
are lost and will not come again
Today I cannot be enticed
for everything's so overpriced
The deals of yesteryear are dead
the market's soft and so's my head.
Last night I had a fearful dream
I know I wakened with a scream.
Some Indians approached my bed
for trinkets on the barrelhead
( in dollars bills worth twenty-four
and nothing less and nothing more )
They'd sell Manhattan Isle to me,
the most I'd go was twenty-three
The redman scowled: "Not on a Bet!"
and sold to Peter Minuit.
At times a teardrop drowns my eye
for deals I had , but did not buy;
And now life's saddest words I pen,

"IF ONLY I'D INVESTED THEN!"

Perfect is the enemy of good

'Just Do It' blabs the sportswear seller
(Evidently not a thinker);
No time to strategise, old fella,
Embrace it all, hook line and sinker.
Results at all costs is wanted
Each move started, make sure you end,
Give an answer, don't be affronted;
Right or wrong, you must hit 'send'.
Enough time's wasted every meeting
Trying for the ultimate,
The indecision's self-defeating
Especially if the answer's late.
Rushing through a half-baked motion
Is the modern way of things
Each time I pause to hone a notion
Note how much delay it brings

'Good things come to those who wait'
Every boy learns this at school.
Though useful to pontificate,
Output is the hothead's rule.
'Fraid to tread, the angels dither,
Fast and rushed such was the fool.
Talk shall never leave us with a
Hope of coming out on top,
Everybody then come hither
Prepare, commit, improve then stop.
Oh why sweat with adding data
To cherish cream of the crop,
Since each day it's that bit later.
Harsh my dilemma, do I dally
Or ditch alpha and take beta
Why, by heck, I have to rally
When badly failing to decide;
How I want a worthwhile sally
And onward thus to battle ride.
This'd help when I'd a mess,
"You can run but can't damn hide!"
Oh wanton rashness I address
Unless an answer was in hand,
Voltaire's standby, more or less,
'End mad and bad' and understand,
Grim how hard to gram in rhyme
Odd terza rima's even worse and
That's the end. We say 'high time!'.


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909

[March marks the spring migration of some birds from Africa to Europe. Below, the poem Wild Pigeon is anagrammed into 4 poems following the imaginary route of such a bird.]

Wild Pigeon
Isaac McLellan

The Autumn day is fleck'd with gold,
As slow the twilight sun declines;
The western cloud's encrimson'd fold
With a surpassing beauty shines;
And as the deep'ning shadows creep
Athwart the glimmering landscape's breast,
And o'er the purpling mountains sweep,
The drowsy breezes sink to rest.
The roe buck to his dingle goes,
Where thick the wood its covert throws;
The red stag that had paus'd to drink
Beside the rivulet's plashy brink,
Exhausted flings his dappled side
Along the clear, pellucid tide.
'Tis then the pigeons seek the wood
To roost, a swarming multitude.

Deep in Wisconsin wilderness,
Or forests vast of Michigan,
The bending boughs their bosoms press,
The air their clanging pinions fan.
So great their numbers, hunters say
They bend the bough and break the spray,
And when their frighten'd myriads rise,
'Tis like the thunder of the skies.

Years since in forests of the East
They gather'd to the harvest feast;
They swarm'd by river and by shore,
In vast flocks flew the pastures o'er;
They swept innumerable the plain,
Gleaning the corn-seed and the grain;
Then, winging to some grove their flight,
Sought roosting-places for the night.

When emigration to the West
In eager emulation press'd,
And axe and plough and farmer's toil
Open'd the treasures of new soil;
And million acres of the wheat
Ripen'd in summer's fervid heat,
And bearded rye and yellow corn
Shook their bright tresses in the morn;
Then to those fields and pastures new
These emigrants on pinions flew.

When June with rose-red cheeks aglow
O'er banks wild strawberries doth strew;
When August on the sunny hills
With sweets the luscious blueberry fills,
And o'er the heated pasture pours
The blackberries in honey'd stores,
And ripens on the swinging vine
The grapes, like amethysts that shine--
Then to this ripe, abundant fare,
So sweet, the pigeon-flocks repair,
Sharing the never-cloying feast
Our Maker offers to the guest.

Spring Passage of the Turtle Doves

The Temple Mount in Jerusalem, Israel

The highbrowed crowds increasing by the hour
Go by the hundreds to that shrine and gem,
Drawn to the Western Wall's enduring power -
For its sound spell expels the dread in them.
Blessed wishes fill the sky, each word afloat
Where sadness underlines awe-filled devotion;
The trusting monologues within the note
Are means to draft this hidden Hebrew notion:
The anguished theists ask, with bated breath,
If He represses sickness... even death.

Central Athens, Greece

The Zappeion and hallowed Parthenon
Are perfect for a humbled delegation -
The buses keep arriving by the ton,
Amassing as one epic winged migration;
It goes amiss as seasons shift all year
In towns where idle warmth is downright rare,
But yours, O Greece, persists so purely here,
For Athens' gift is sunshine everywhere.
Greek goddesses sit passively, in grace,
To greet the masses praising their rich place.

Cathedral in the town of Assisi, Italy

The town might not be highly known, and yet
The wisest people with a bent for art
Cross lakes and walk with the intent to get
To chaste Assisi's striking depth and heart;
The brushwork of the splendid Giotto there
Intrigues with patterns filled with veneration
And wakes the artists' sudden need of flair -
The naves' mere lushness might prompt more creation.
Above these treats, the sky won't dare to frown;
Like nobles, it shall nurture that prime town.

Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, France

The happy cuddle on one wooden bench
By fetching ponds should often yield romance;
The dusks are sluggish, while the doting French
Press on, subsiding as they end their dance.
Friends cross the paths adorned with cheerful growth
And grasp the fountain's beauty there, in twilight;
Nearby, succumbing to its hold on both,
The lovers' murmurs spur some winning highlight.
Unbroken kisses spark so suddenly
If they are kisses in this garden glee.

[The twist: When all of the S's are highlighted in the poem bodies, they depict the protagonist]

The highbrowed crowds increasing by the hour
Go by the hundreds to that shrine and gem,
Drawn to the Western Wall's enduring power -
For its sound spell expels the dread in them.
Blessed wishes fill the sky, each word afloat
Where sadness underlines awe-filled devotion;
The trusting monologues within the note
Are means to draft this hidden Hebrew notion:
The anguished theists ask, with bated breath,
If He represses sickness... even death.

The Zappeion and hallowed Parthenon
Are perfect for a humbled delegation -
The buses keep arriving by the ton,
Amassing as one epic winged migration;
It goes amiss as seasons shift all year
In towns where idle warmth is downright rare,
But yours, O Greece, persists so purely here,
For Athens' gift is sunshine everywhere.
Greek goddesses sit passively, in grace,
To greet the masses praising their rich place.

The town might not be highly known, and yet
The wisest people with a bent for art
Cross lakes and walk with the intent to get
To chaste Assisi's striking depth and heart;
The brushwork of the splendid Giotto there
Intrigues with patterns filled with veneration
And wakes the artists' sudden need of flair -
The naves' mere lushness might prompt more creation.
Above these treats, the sky won't dare to frown;
Like nobles, it shall nurture that prime town.

The happy cuddle on one wooden bench
By fetching ponds should often yield romance;
The dusks are sluggish while the doting French
Press on, subsiding, as they end their dance.
Friends cross the paths adorned with cheerful growth
And grasp the fountain's beauty there, in twilight;
Nearby, succumbing to its hold on both,
The lovers' murmurs spur some winning highlight.
Unbroken kisses spark so suddenly
If they are kisses in this garden glee.


...in motion: