901

[William Carlos Williams' poem BLIZZARD is anagrammed into a similarly titled poem based on an actual news article about "a New Jersey mom and her 1-year-old son (who) died of carbon monoxide poisoning while keeping warm in a car as the dad cleared snow from around the vehicle." The name of the father and other additional details were sourced from this CNN article: The lives lost in the blizzard of 2016. The anagram has the acrostic constraint SASHA LYNN AND SON, the victims of the deadly CO poisoning.]

BLIZZARD
William Carlos Williams

Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down --
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes --
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there --
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

BLIZZARD


Sasha Lynn Rosa, little Messiah,
And toddler Saniyah
Sat in the car with
Heater on.
As Felix knelt lower, solely dug his car out,
Life slipped by.
Yet it felt cold --
Now frightfully dark,
Now worldly lost.
A regretted frozen error
Numbs the total truth --
Deadly hazardous gas
Seeped into the loaded vehicle.
Our wistful Saniyah makes it.
Now sorrowful Winter is longer.

902

'Don't Let's Be Beastly To The Germans' - Noel Coward

We must be kind, and with an open mind
We must endeavour to find a way
To let the Germans know that when the war is over
They are not the ones who'll have to pay.
We must be sweet, and tactful and discreet
And when they've suffered defeat
We mustn't let them feel upset
Or ever get the feeling that we're cross with them or hate them,
Our future policy must be to reinstate them.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When our victory is ultimately won,
It was just those nasty Nazis who persuaded them to fight
And their Beethoven and Bach are really far worse than their bite
Let's be meek to them, and turn the other cheek to them
And try to bring out their latent sense of fun.
Let's give them full air parity
And treat the rats with charity,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

We must be just, and win their love and trust
And in addition we must be wise
And ask the conquered lands to join our hands to aid them.
That would be a wonderful surprise.
For many years they've been in floods of tears
Because the poor little dears
Have been so wronged and only longed
To cheat the world, deplete the world
And beat the world to blazes.
This is the moment when we ought to sing their praises.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When we've definitely got them on the run
Let us treat them very kindly as we would a valued friend
We might send them out some bishops as a form of lease and lend,
Let's be sweet to them, and day by day repeat to them
That 'sterilization' simply isn't done.
Let's help the dirty swine again
To occupy the Rhine again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When the age of peace and plenty has begun.
We must send them steel and oil and coal and everything they need
For their peaceable intentions can be always guaranteed.
Let's employ with them a sort of 'strength through joy' with them,
They're better than us at honest manly fun.
Let's let them feel they're swell again,
And bomb us all to hell again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
For you can't deprive a gangster of his gun
Though they've been a little naughty,
To the Czechs and Poles and Dutch,
But I don't suppose those countries really minded very much.
Let's be free with them and share the BBC with them,
We mustn't prevent them basking in the sun.
Let's soften their defeat again,
And build their bloody fleet again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

=

My Wee Toast to the Scots

Wha hae the Scots? They've amazing grace!
Glasgae up to Aberdeen,
Newton Stewart, to Edinburgh,
John O'Groats down to Gretna Green.

They do moan that independence they wanted,
Tend to slur, horizontally pissed,
But if we were left without them "sweaties",
Then they truthfully would be most missed.

They CAN be a wee tadette tight-fisted,
The battered Mars Bar they greedily consumed,
Should that Sturgeon bust the union, though,
- Then we're doomed, mon...ah tell ye that...DOOMED!

Now, that Barnett Formula might well annoy a few,
Though from The Krankies (shudder!) we'd recoil,
Why, even that, we've fully forgiven them.
(Well, we must want all the North Sea oil!)

They gave us haggis, neeps and tatties,
Bell's, Tennent's Stout, Irn Bru,
The Dundee Cake, the tasty shortbread,
Sweet teeth to tempt, the noo!

The Tam O'Shanters with the red-headed wig,
The Saltire, the 'pipes, tweed, and all...
But with that twat Duncan Bannatyne's attitude,
Thumbs up, Hadrian mate, for the wall.

The myth of the Loch Ness Monster,
The purple-hued heather, thistle, ferns,
The wee sleekit tim'rous beasties,
Unsettled by THE poet...Burns.

David Clouthard, Simple Minds' hits,
Little Lulu (Still would! What a fittie!),
Rab C. Nesbitt, in that tatty old vest,
The tartan-trewed Rollers (Bay City).

The talented Andy Murray,
The best Bond (well, that's Shir Sean),
Billy Connolly (the demented 'Big Yin'),
- All north of the border born.

The greens...they've the very finest,
That we have ever seen.
(Added to eighteen holes of Donald Trump's,
Tee-to-putt, in Aberdeen).

The detested Prime Ministers, Blair and Brown,
(For them two, we blame New Labour),
Both, in my humble opinion,
Voted "tossers". (Of the caber).

The velvety-toned Susan Boyle,
Braveheart, Sawney Bean, Midge Ure,
James, Ben, Simon..."Mon the Biff!"
Stephen Hendry, Denis Law.

Renton, Begbie, Sick Boy, Spud, Diane,
(That's the Trainspotting lot),
The tasty, petite Sheena Easton,
Angus Young, the late Bon Scott.

Lonnie Donegan, Carol Ann Duffy,
The tenements, the sonsie face,
Robert Louis Stevenson,
Oor Wullie, the Faslane Naval Base.

Groundskeeper Willie MacDougal,
The steam engine fellow James Watt,
The mouthy lefty Tommy Sheridan,
Dee Hepburn, Queen Liz's yacht.

The frozen, wet slopes of Ben Nevis,
Edinburgh Castle, the Fringe, the Tattoo...
The beheaded Mary Stuart,
The country's teams in navy blue.

Paddy, Jock, Taff, sassenach,
Let's at Hogmanay duly entwine,
Between us, down that bottle of Drambuie,
And blotto, hammer-out Auld Lang Syne!

903

After a joyous night of drugs, alcohol and wild sex, Eric woke up to find himself lying next to a really ugly woman. That's when he realised he'd made it home safely.

Seven wheelchair athletes have been banned from the Paralympics after they tested positive for WD40.

A boy says to his granny, 'Have you seen my pills, they're labelled LSD?' Gran replies, 'The hell with the pills, did you see those dragons in the kitchen?"

Vivian gets naked and says to hubby Colin, 'What turns you on more, my pretty face or my sexy body?' Colin looks her up and down and replies, 'Your sense of humour?' Hospital visiting hours are 5-6pm.

Cyril's wife is on the warpath again. She was up for making a sex movie last night, and all he did was to suggest they hold auditions for her part. The viewing will be Saturday from 7:00 till 8:30.

I awoke this morning at 9 o'clock and I could sense that something was wrong. On going downstairs, I found my wife lying on the kitchen floor, not breathing! I panicked, I just did not know what to do. Then I remembered, McDonalds serves breakfast until 10:30.

My wife packed my bags, and as I walked out the front door, she screamed, "I wish you a slow and painful death, you bastard!" "Oh," I replied, "so now you want me to stay!”.

I bought my wife Alice a hamster-skin coat yesterday. Last night I took her to the fair, and it took me 3 hours to get her off the Ferris wheel.

Last night, my wife asked me how many women I'd slept with. "Only you, Marcia," I told her, "only you. All the others kept me awake all night!"
My doctor says I should be able to see again in about ten days. The broken arm may take several weeks.

You know what I did before I got married?
Absolutely anything I wanted to.

I accidentally swallowed some Scrabble tiles last night. My next crap could spell disaster.

Old people at weddings always poke me and say, "You're next!"
So now I've started doing the same to them at funerals.

My missus said: "Watcha doing today?"
I said, "Nothing."
She said, "You did that yesterday."
I said, "I wasn't finished."

The importance of walking:

Walking can supposedly add hours to a person's life.
This enables you at 85 years of age to spend an additional 3 months in a nursing home at $4,000 per month.

My grandpop started off walking five miles a day when he was 60.
Now he's 97 and we don't know where the hell he is.

I do like long walks, especially when they're taken by people who annoy me.

The only reason I would take up walking is so I could hear the sound of heavy breathing again.

I need to walk early in the mornings before my brain works out what the hell I'm doing...

Every time I hear that dirty word 'exercise', I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

Seems I suffer from flabby thighs, but fortunately my stomach covers them.

Frankly, the only benefit to be had from hard work-outs every day is, when you die, they'll say, 'Ah, he looks well doesn't he!'

If you're going to try cross-country skiing, you'd best start off with a small country.

I got most of my exercise during the last few years just getting over the hill.

We only get heavier as we grow older because there's more information in our heads.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Whenever I think how haggard and bad I look, I'll find a pub with a Happy Hour and by the time I leave, I look just fine.

When you think about it, God really is the best inventor of them all.
He took a rib from Adam and made a loudspeaker.

904

TURNED UP
(AKA "(Mary Ellen At The Church) Turned Up")
By
Herbert Rule & Harry Castling (1924)

(Monologue)
In our little village there has been a tragedy
Deary, deary me, such a terrible tragedy
Mary Ellen Bottomley today should have been wed
It's a good job that she didn't, so everybody said

(CHORUS)
Mary Ellen at the church turned up
Her Mother turned up and her Dad turned up
Her sister Gert and her rich uncle Bert
And the parson in his long white shirt turned up
But no bridegroom with the ring turned up
But a telegraph boy with his nose turned up
Brought a telegram that said, he didn't want to wed
And they'd find him in the river with his toes turned up

(Monologue)
The people waiting in the street, they fairly blocked the road
They waited in the road for the money the bridegroom owed
"My heart is broken", cried the bride, so Jim the butcher's son
He rushed into his shop and brought her out another one

(CHORUS)
Mary Ellen at the church turned up
Her Mother turned up and her Dad turned up
Her sister Gert and her rich uncle Bert
And the parson in his long white shirt turned up
But no bridegroom with the ring turned up
But a telegraph boy with his nose turned up
Brought a telegram that said, he didn't want to wed
And they'd find him in the river with his toes turned up

(Monologue)
Now when a day had passed, they found the bridegroom hadn't drowned
They went around and found, he was sleeping safe and sound
His bride he should have wed there at the church that afternoon
Said, "There wasn't any wedding, but there'll be a funeral soon!"

(CHORUS)
Mary Ellen at the church turned up
Her Mother turned up and her Dad turned up
Her sister Gert and her rich uncle Bert
And the parson in his long white shirt turned up
But no bridegroom with the ring turned up
But a telegraph boy with his nose turned up
Brought a telegram that said, he didn't want to wed
And they'd find him in the river with his toes turned up

EVERYBODY AT 'THE MET' TURNED UP (HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH)
Harry White

(Monologue)
Christopher Sturdy had an eerie dream that night,
Dearie, dearie me, an eerie dream he had that night
He dreamt he was alone in 'The Met' in Baker St.
He thought he was indeed alone; was he in for a treat!

Then...

(CHORUS)
Larry Brash and David B turned up,
Adie P turned up then Ellie D turned up,
Nedesto, View and charming Dharam too,
And the 'Toast o' the Forum', Rosie P turned up.
Then Mey, the Anagrammy god turned up,
Toby (the mi-se-ra-ble sod) turned up,
He told the others with a sneer, 'I only came here for the beer,'
Then he sat there on his ipod with the sound turned up.

(Monologue)
Chris was decidedly dumbfounded at the sight,
Of the very worthy wordsmiths who'd turned up in there that night.
He cried, "Hi! My heart is whirring, seeing such a nerdy horde,
But has anybody thought to bring along their Scrabble board"?

Then...

(CHORUS)
The late, great Tully, with his friend turned up
Brothers Dan & Don with the Lofts twins turned up,
Richard G arrived and Jesse, he turned up
And the dribbling, dithering, gibbering Tony C (hard up).
James Young, Neil R and Richard B turned up,
Scott, Lusch, Torr, Green and Mayer (Dean) turned up,
Then Deano said to Toby, sittin' whitterin' on his right:
"Hey, there'll be no cross words in the pub tonight!"

(Monologue)
Now throughout the city there was a deafening hubbub
As thirty shoulders rubbed together in the cultured club
The barmaids hurried here and there with wine and beer galore
And the pub's attending number grew from 1 to 2-9-4!

Then...

(CHORUS)
Rick, Brehaut, Will T-P turned up,
Ivan and, hey-ho! Mr Keith turned up,
Paul Pan turned up and Tyler S turned up,
Then Dr Charles, attending with the Winslow boy, turned up,
The late Dan Etter with some p(o)ints turned up,
Then Art Day entered with his hood turned up,
Then the landlord hollered loud to the ever-growing crowd,
"Hey, I need to close the doors - the ruddy pub's full up!"

905

A WINDMILL IN OLD AMSTERDAM
By Ronnie Hilton

A mouse lived in a windmill in old Amsterdam
A windmill with a mouse in and he wasn't grousin'
He sang every morning, "How lucky I am,
Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam!"

Chorus:
I saw a mouse!
Where?
There on the stair!
Where on the stair?
Right there!
A little mouse with clogs on
Well I declare!
Going clip-clippety-clop on the stair
Oh yeah

This mouse he got lonesome, he took him a wife
A windmill with mice in, it's hardly surprisin'
She sang every morning, "How lucky I am,
Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam!"

Chorus
I saw a mouse!
Where?
There on the stair!
Where on the stair?
Right there!
A little mouse with clogs on
Well I declare!
Going clip-clippety-clop on the stair
Oh yeah

First they had triplets and then they had quins
A windmill with quins in, and triplets and twins in
They sang every morning, "How lucky we are
Living in a windmill in Amsterdam, ya!"

Chorus
I saw a mouse!
Where?
There on the stair!
Where on the stair?
Right there!
A little mouse with clogs on
Well I declare!
Going clip-clippety-clop on the stair
Oh yeah

The daughters got married and so did the sons
The windmill had christ'nin's when no one was list'nin'
They all sang in chorus, "How lucky we am
Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam!"

Chorus
I saw a mouse!
Where?
There on the stair!
Where on the stair?
Right there!
A little mouse with clogs on
Well I declare!
Going clip-clippety-clop on the stair
Oh yeah

A mouse lived in a windmill, so snug and so nice
There's nobody there now but a whole lot of mice.

THE (UNWILLING) WOMEN IN WINDOWS IN OLD AMSTERDAM


I recall once, while visiting old Amsterdam
With nine willing mates on a 'men only' break,
We guys went to view its iconic 'red lights'
On a mission to savour some sinning delights!

Chorus
I saw some girls
There
Selling their wares
Selling their wares
Right there!
Their mini-skirts were high, their tops
low, I declare
They were all hangin' out in the square
Whoo, yeah!

As the evening continued I opted to split
I'd had too much Amstel, I wanted to sit, so
While mooching around I unconsciously found
This girl in a window in Amsterdam town.

Chorus
She seemed so sad
All
Alone on a chair
Long chestnut hair
Such hair!
Her hollow eyes were blank,
Her slim shoulders were bare
And her posture declared much despair
I swear

How many vile men will use her to maul?
Ten, twenty, thirty? it is tough to call, they'll
All pay her in cash then her pimp has the lot
Will he give her commission in cocaine 'n' pot?

Chorus
I saw one lone
Tear
Roll from her eye
Rolling down, my
oh my
And in that moment a
Lonely voice in me cried:
"I'll release her, I'll give it a try,
I'll try!"

Going up to the window I tapped on the pane,
I smiled sympathetically, hoped theoretically
She'd understand that I'm quite a nice man
This girl in this window in ol' Amsterdam

Chorus
I gave one kick
With
All my full might
With all my willing might
I saw the window pane co-llapse
Such a sight!
Then I carried her into
The night
Damn right!

A girl who sat in a window in ol' Amsterdam
Is happily wed now - and I am her man!

906

[This month marked the 15th anniversary of 9/11. To commemorate the event, and as a tribute to the new WTC tower One World Trade Center, here's Emma Lazarus's "The New Colossus" - the poem engraved on the Statue of Liberty - and its anagram, which employs a couple of relevant constraints:]

The New Colossus
(The sonnet on the Statue of Liberty)

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!"

To the undefiled One World Trade Center

How grimly might one guild with hate-filled minds
Erase a mighty stone and hit another!
Flames mark the zone where mirth was left behind;
Rays that once shone were quite unfairly smothered:
Extremist fury cloned itself, it seems.
Each bruise postponed the wide-eyed, timid slant;
Debates weren't honest fights but loathsome screams
Or some old-fashioned hate of immigrants.
Must almost everyone prefer to hear
The politician-drones, with simple words -
Or oracles, so prone to spread dull fears,
Who know the Big One "had not yet occurred"?
Embrace these bygone plagues as healing sores -
Reminding us why one blight might make more.

[The constraints: In a monospaced font, an acrostic on the left side spells out One World Trade Center's other name, and the tower is represented visually through the sonnet's 15 one's (which stand for the 15 years since the event):]

To the undefiled One World Trade Center
How grimly might one guild with hate-filled minds
Erase a mighty stone and hit another!
Flames mark the zone where mirth was left behind;
Rays that once shone were quite unfairly smothered:
Extremist fury cloned itself, it seems.
Each bruise postponed the wide-eyed, timid slant;
Debates weren't honest fights but loathsome screams
Or some old-fashioned hate of immigrants.
Must almost everyone prefer to hear
The politician-drones, with simple words -
Or oracles, so prone to spread dull fears,
Who know the Big One "had not yet occurred"?
Embrace these bygone plagues as healing sores -
Reminding us why one blight might make more.

907

[A Shakespearean Sonnet turned into another sonnet with a hidden constraint]

William Shakespeare's Sonnet No. Fifty-Five

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

What tyranny would end hope in our world very soon?

Shall war upset our thorny harmony
Or will that frothy wave inter us all?
Shall monstrous beasts strain the monotony
Or will these wholesome angels make us fall?
Will scientific yearnings stretch their limits
Or will we all be killed by 'subprime' vendors?
Might every strong fume hide this sun and dim it
Or may the sun itself enflame Earth's splendors?
Is it true that our pet will tell us "stuff it"
Or that quite soon, those robots might revolt?
Can everyone be hurt by plagues and snuff it
Or shriek and shudder in one seismic jolt?
If one of them hits home, rely on love
And wait as pious Noah for a dove.

[And here with the hidden constraint revealed]

908

[One version (of many) of Woody Guthrie's famous American folk song 'This Land Is Your Land' is anagrammed into an allegorical poem that also contains a couple of constraints:]

This land is your land, this land is my land,
From California to the New York island;
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters,
This land was made for you and me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

I've roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
And all around me a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted, it said private property -
But on the back side it didn't say nothing;
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I'd seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back.
This land was made for you and me.

How To Unify Against A Notable Malady

The Legion - that walked in that vast, savage land -
Has suddenly stopped on that damn scalding sand;
Each gaped at a lad that was flat on his back
Unmoving and voiceless, his body all slack.
None knew which sad malady petrified him;
It was simply known that his odds were now grim.
Their mission was key, and among that brave lot
Emerged that big issue of "ditch him or not?"
Dear kin, it's all pointless and we should move on,
Said one candid fellow. Our comrade's now gone
To faraway realms bundled in that warped mind
And sadly, I'd say we must leave him behind!
The Legion's most massive guy added, If so,
End all of his suffering, with my staff's blow!
So, woeful and weary, they sought the wise aid
Of their savvy leader, that sat in the shade;
For minutes, he frowned, disappointed and tense,
And finally, formed this straightforward defense:
My boys, we may build a field gurney, for one,
Evoking team spirit and strength when it's done.
Real Legions, I'd wager, make that right away;
I'd say there's a more fearsome problem today.
Combined, we might triumph; apart, we may rot;
And now, you fools, choose: ARE we Legion, or not?

[While the acrostic down the anagram's left hand side reveals the Legion's suffering member in this allegory, its right hand side also reveals its current malady, in a reversed silhouette. In case you haven't spotted it yet, here's a smaller display:]