Aeneid Anagram Mania

I sing of arms and the man...
...not his farm and gas mine... 

(This is a tale of heroes in war, not agribusiness and the energy sector.)

The Odds Have It...

...a monopoly, that is, on vowels. Don't tell me you haven't noticed that the 13 odd letters of the English alphabet listed in order include among their number all six vowels or that no vowels -- not a single one -- appear among the 13 even letters listed in order. 

Tiny Tim Anagram Mania

Marley was dead...
...are we mad...? Sadly...

Whaling Anagram Mania

Call me Ishmael. 
I'm a camel shell.

Lenten Anagram Mania

Jesus wept. 
Caption appearing beneath illustration accompanying newspaper's Good Friday early edition op ed. 

Upset Jews. 
Caption appearing beneath illustration accompanying newspaper's Good Friday afternoon edition op ed. 

Just weeps. 
Caption appearing beneath illustration accompanying newspaper's Good Friday late edition op ed. 

Use wet PJs. 
Caption appearing beneath illustration accompanying newspaper's Easter Monday early edition advice column offering tips on cleaning up egg-coloring messes.

An Anagrammed Alternate Gatsby

In my younger and more vulnerable years... 
...a gerbil ruined very early neums. 

In this variation on a classic jazz-age novel, Scott Fitzgerald's opening words are completed with some by Ulysses Poe. Together they begin relating the story of a former mysterious American millionaire turned novice choir monk who composes liturgical texts, setting them to primitive written forms of chant only to have both words and notations set on fire by a jealous Mongolian hamster bent on harassing the cloister.
 

Conspiracy! (Number One in a Series)

"Who'd read between the lines 
must rearrange the letters." 
                                         -- Uly Poe 

Make America Great Again...

...a meme, a trick, a nigger, a... 

"Draw your own conclusions." 

                                -- Pepe Catona

C. Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities" Opening Line Followed by U. Poe's Alternative Anagrammatic Continuation

It was the best of times... 
...see: I'm soft, wet -- bat-shit! 

J. Joyce's "Ulysses" Opening with U. Poe's Alternate Anagrammatic Continuation

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan...
...kills McUbu, tall 'n' gay Muppet.

Two VERY Short Stories From One Anagram Pair

For sale: baby shoes; never worn. 
                                     -- E. Hemingway

Hoary barbs for less? We've none.
                                                  -- U. Poe

I've Tried: a Lament

I've tried to imagine myself a fine fellow. 
I've tried to suppose myself some sort of saint. 
I've tried to remake me in manieres most mellow. 

I've tried one pluperfect self-portrait to paint. 
I've tried to imagine I'm ev'ry bloke's bestie, 

a guy lacking guile and mendacity's taint. 
I've tried, since a kid, of all sin to be rid. 
I've tried -- heaven knows how I've tried. I just cain't.

Frackin'Stein

The Seventh Shirt...? It's Hethven Hert's: A Nonsense Leading to an Anagram

My sweetheart's sewn 
some seven shirts. 

The first she sew'd

is Blob-I-Dob's. 

The second sewn

is Seuss's Yert's. 

The third shirt sewn 

is Uncle Bob's. 

The fourth she sew'd 

is Fran De Boo's. 

The fifth shirt sewn 

is Gammer Gurt's. 

The sixth she sew'd...? 

I've got no clues. 

The seventh shirt...? 

It's Hethven Hert's.

For Blob-I-Dob see Delicious Nutritious Sayings. For Yert see Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss. For Uncle Bob see Bob's your uncle. For Fran De Boo see Deliciou Nutritious Sayings. For Gammer Gurt see Gammer Gurton's Needle. There is at present no known source for Hethven Hert.

Snarkstiltutes! The Kraken

 

Kraken 

Aged ten 'n' three, 

I Jack Tar'd be,
though yet I'm sea legs lackin.'

Part man, part whelp, 

I plan (you'll help...?) 

to kill the kelp-clad kraken: 

I, arm'd with guns 

'n' bullets (tons!),

bazookas, too, am packin.'

Snarkstitutes! The Skookum (and the Shen), the Troll, the Unicorn, the Vetala (aka the Vetada), the Warg, the Xindi (or the Xana), the Yeti and the Zashiki Warashi

Tho' 'twon't say when, my wont's to pen,
"I grabb'd ten shen 'n' shook 'em..." 
Till then I'll bruit this substitute:
"I'll stick to stalkin' skookum."
(And, once they're caught, you know, one ought
to cuff their flukes 'n' nuke 'em.) 

I've punted foals. I've blunted dholes. 

I've hunted moles down holes. 

My recent goal's to play new roles --

like trackin' truant trolls.

(One snare I fear...? I'll ne'er adhere

to quality controls.) 

I'm ever urgin' ev'ry virgin:

"Virtue must be earn'd:

Procure ye horns of unicorns,

nor leave no cones unturn'd.

(Each horn purloin'd must needs be join'd

with love -- lest one be spurn'd.)" 

An op'ra done (a top-notch one) 

last season at La Scala

explores in song what all goes wrong

when vanquishin' vetala. 

(My baritone was "stand-alone";

I sang Vetala Wallah.) 

My friend Seurat tried bellin' chats

and wound up in the morgue. 

Still, hear him rage, "Who's up for wagin'

war upon the warg...?"

(Who'd join -- enlist -- in such a tryst  

ought visit <warg.org>)

No taint to show restraint, although

I'll faint -- or go bananas --

unless I shoot (read: execute)

some xindhis. Or some xanas.

(One's not a nut who'd question what

a piece of work this man is.) 

Gendarmes demand all arms be bann'd --

brass knuckles and machetes. 

(With same I'd deign to yank the chain

of all remaining yetis.

How do 'em in...? Their hides I'd skin; 

their guts turn thin spaghettis.) 

Some beasts you'd drub...? Then grab a club 

(a niblick, spoon or mashie), 

then zero in...and shear its shin.

zashiki (ugh!) warashi.

(One blow at speed is all you'll need:

nowt skillful, shrewd or flashy.)

Voila! You've seen there's beasts umpteen 

as nasty e'en as snarks. 

While we disperse, let me be terse:

Their bites...? Fa-a-ar worse than barks.

(No wonder fundamentalists

exclude 'em from their arks.)   

     Fin

Snarkstitutes! Opening Four-Panel Spread

 

Snarkstitutes! The Poltergeist, the Qareen & the Roc

Beasts -- slews! -- I've bled (from few I've fled)
down days since bread's been sliced. 
Still, bless my soul, my best damn role..?
Oppress the poltergeist.

(Loud noise you hear by night...? I fear

'tis poltergeists, by Christ!) 

That God is great I'll not negate;

my dogmal slate is clean.

And still my quest's to quash, sans rest, 

the Qabalah's qareen.

(Great care I'll take, for heaven's sake:

you ne'er know where it's been.) 

Dad hunted gnu. His runts did, too,

like chips off olden blocks.

Those days...? Long gone. Fresh crises spawn 

my raids upon twin rocs:

The female swipes Pa's corncob pipes; 

the male Ma's mincemeat mocks.

Snarkstitutes! Nessie & Ouroboros

Aren't you my liege...? Your job...? Lay siege 

(an act oblige noblessey) --

to spray a toxin o'er the lochs 'n' 

nail that noxious Nessie. 

(Make sure the bane's a potent strain,

lest matters moot turn messy.) 

Egyptian priests deplore such beasts.

Greek Plato joins their chorus. 

Old Norse do, too (as we do...nu...?):

All'd oust the Ouroboros,

who'll rancid gas dish out (alas!)

as well as tiresome tsorus. 

Snarkstitutes! The Monopod

I bleat, I pray, "Fie, feet of clay! 
Belay this playing god! 
This sling's the thing for murdering
the monst'rous monopod.

And, tho' 'tis weird, no counter's fear'd:

We'll see no quid pro quod."

Snarkstitutes! The Kraken & The Lubber Fiend

Aged ten 'n' three, I Jack Tar'd be,
though yet were sea legs lackin.'
Part man, part whelp, I plann'd (with help) 
to kill the kelp-clad kraken: 

I, arm'd with guns 'n' bullets (tons!),

bazookas, too, was packin.'

So: here's the gist: My peers insist

a posse be convened.

(There's but one rub: they're nuts to club

the loathsome lubber fiend: 

some irate Brit put out a hit;

his Smith & Wesson's clean'd.) 

Snarkstitutes! The Jubjub Bird

 

Jubjub 

Lewis Carrol's jubjub reportedly "will not look at a bribe." Uly Poe's jubjub...? Quite the opposite. 

Let's deputize and then advise
tough gals 'n' guys to gird 
each rump 'n' tail, then dump in jail 
the ur-schlub jubjub bird.

He's overdue for hard time, nu...?

(Reprieve...? Don't be absurd.)

Snarkstitutes! The Hippogriff & The Ishigaq

 
Hippogriff 

Poet Ludovico Ariosto imagines his hippogriff as crossbred between an eagle and a horse. Artist Uly Poe  reimagines that creature as the fusion of a stallion, a griffin and Senator Bernie Sanders. 
 

A horse-(no lie!)-'n'-eagle scion...?

Why should I care if

he's run to ground. I'd hate to hound

the hipster hippogriff --

tho' don't you think road apples stink...? 

You don't...? Whoa! Take a whiff!

Ishigaq inhabiting host 

Ishia are shapeshifters believed to kidnap (and deport...?), then abandon children.

Nor can I hide the imp inside 

(in fact, I lack the knack).

Be it too late to immolate 

my inner ishigaq...?

Snarkstitutes! The Gorgon

 
Gorgon 

Gorgons are monsters with snakes for hair (and, in the case of this gorgon, shit for brains) who turn the unwary into stone by staring at them (as with a mugshot...?) 

Alack, it's true: one's jumping to 
conclusions reckon'd foregone 
ought not be done a jot -- when one 
goes gunnin' for a gorgon.

(Not only will he lie 'n' shill:

he'll grab a female organ.)

Snarkstitutes! The Formorian

Formorian 

Personifications of chaos and blight, the Formorians of Irish myth are often portrayed as hostile, monstrous beings.

Halt! Half a mo! Don't laugh. I'll show 

you rafts of cups I glory in. 
I won this bling while collaring 
the fatu'us foul Formorian.

(Some claim to hear, when one draws near,

the cant of chant Gregorian.) 

Snarkstitutes! A Bigly Bestiary

"For the snark was a boojum you see."

                                      -- Lewis Carroll

Live precious few who, pressured to 

recall their fav'rite lark, 

would favor us with answer thus:

"Mine's hunting of the snark." 

Instead, these days, knights errant trace

grotesques of diff'rent race:

  

 
Acephalus 
 

Mythical acephali, headless, display their

facial features  across their torsos. (N.B.: having no head does not imply having no hair.)

What fool'd forget each pain, each fret, 

each almost-fatal sally

he sweated besting, then arresting,

awful acephali...?

(Remember'd, too...? Each sharp review

of Grampa's Rand McNally.) 

 

 

Bishop-fish 

Sycophants kowtowing to legendary bishop-fish are urged to purchase Bibles, autographed by these creatures, at a small discount. 

Who'd not confess each strain, each stress 

(though kvetching's not their wish)...? 

Their wont...? Explore the ocean floor

for beastly bishop-fish --

which, serv'd with chips on pirate ships,

most mates pronounce, "Delish!")

 

Chromandi 

Sharp-fanged monkey-like men who, insists  Pliny the Elder, roam urban jungles, are covered in blond hair and, tho' claiming "the best words," routinely resort to screams.

No reb'd mislay his trebuchet.* 

Such weaponry proves handy

when, marching forth, one dead-heads north

to capture cru'l chromandi, 

whose practiced art's to grab gals' parts --

their modus operandi. 

*In the US, read "...forget his trebuchet."

 

  

Djinn 

Supernatural beings encountered in medieval Arab traditions, these devilish spirits are shapeshifters, often held captive in bottles of many kinds and, released, wreak global havoc.

A young'un (three -- too gung ho...? Oui!),

I took it on the chin:

the Kids' Krusade! (Mistakes were made 

when disembow'ling djinn.) 

Echidna 

Living alone in a gated temple and worship'd by people of the nearby land, the half-snake Echidna bears numerous monstrous offspring.

Though now she's dead, I've often read 

of one (d'ya think I'd kid ya...?) 

who grabs her truncheon after lunch 'n'

slays ten men: Echidna!

(To best avoid this mongoloid,

each man of wit stays hid, huh...?)

 

 

(continued elsewhere)

My Big Green Box

On most moist, moonlit mornings 

post the vernal equinox, 

I wake to dual warnings 

from a pair of Plymouth Rocks,
their cock-a-doodlings not unlike 

twin arias of Bach's.
(Both cocks and I reside in my 

calliope-green box.)

My neighbors won't (or, so far, don't) 

berate me 'bout my birds. 

"An egg from you (just one would do) 

could smooth things, nu...?" (Their words.)  

Do pay we heed to neighbors' need...? 

The populorum vox...? 

We do, we three -- my cocks 'n' me 

and my goatee-green box. 

"This house of yours, its closet doors, 

its hardwood floors: why green...? 

We hues of blue could list for you -- 

three hundred seventeen,"

my neighbors fuss. I answer thus: 

"Good friends, if sev'ral blocks

around one treks, there's none erects 

a like Tex-Mex-green box."

 

Perhaps you've seen me on TV -- 

on "Wide, Wide World of Warts."

I spew some news and view "Who's Who"s 

in esoteric sports.

All this I do on Channel Two. 

(I'm e'er eschewing Fox.)

I, up at 3:00, down caffeined tea 

then flee my sea-green box.   

     (More verses, plus images, to come; a work in progress)

Jesuses, Gentle & Orange: (Pray Do Not Get 'Em Confused!) An Agony In Three Fits

     I 

Say "Hey!" to Gentle Jesus aka The Nazarene.
Don't pray to Orange Jesus aka The Tangerine. 

The first one's in a manger born (no rooms left at the inn).

The second one is born in Queens and sports an orange skin.

Say "Hi!" to Gentle Jesus who turns water into wine.

Bid "Bye!" to Orange Jesus, who's with grabbin' pussy "fine."

The first's a man of faith and hope -- and charity to boot.

The second launches charities then pockets all the loot. 

Say "Yes!" to Gentle Jesus, him who makes the blind to see.

A mess is Orange Jesus; lives there none as blind as he.

The first one also makes the deaf to hear, the lame to walk.

The other touts expensive bibles, books he looks to hawk.

     II 

Say "Yo!" to Gentle Jesus; he's a healer of the sick. 

Say "No!" to Orange Jesus, wheeler-dealer. (And a dick!) 

The first's a Jewish carpenter who some say walks on water. 

The second carps that, if he could, he'd doubtless date his daughter.

Say "Yah!" to Gentle Jesus; heed his "Children, come to me." 

Say "Nah!" to Orange Jesus and his university.   

The first's call'd Mighty Counselor, My Lord, the Prince of Peace.

The second's a misogynist -- who'd love to date his niece. 

Say "Oui!" to G! He feeds good folks with sev'ral fish 'n' loaves. 

Bend knee to O (or just say "No!") who exiles folks in droves. 

The first one is a friend to all; he's ev'rybody's brother.

The other (Vay! I'm sad to say) would even date his mother. 

     III

Say "Yay!" to Gentle Jesus. Lamb of God he's also call'd.

The other guy, call'd Ham of God (who'll ne'er admit he's bald)

is likewise known as Scam of God. (His shakedowns sometimes stall'd,

where 'pon he's call'd The Sham of God, tho' God's, no doubt, appall'd.) 

Say "Howdy, Gentle Jesus." He's the Way, the Truth, the Life. 

Kow-tow to Orange Jesus: he's with narcissism rife.

The first, who perish'd for our sins, tells followers he'll rise.

The next, a pear-shaped sinner, caught in 30,000 lies.

Say "Stet!" to Gentle Jesus. (Am I running short of rhymes...?) 

Say "Nyet!" to Orange Jesus who's the Hitler of our times.

So: which loves folks who after justice hunger, yearn and thirst...?

It ain't the guy exclaiming, "I should be Pope Don the First." 

     Fin     

The Final Four of "What A's NOT For...Still" Letters W Through Z

Winking Wilbur Wrights...? 

 

Wait, Watt.* No way's W** for four

winking Wilbur Wrights whilst wicked
warlocks -- wan-wigg'd -- wildly wave one's
worthless warrantee: 

*George D. Watt, together with iso-initial'd fellow Mormon Parley P. Pratt (see lines for letter P above), develops Deseret alphabet c. 1855. 

**Pronounced in two syllables, as in "Dub-yah." 

Xerox'd xerophytes...? 

 

   

X...? No, Xaver,* X ain't for four

Xerox'd xerophytes. X is...? (E)x-

actly: "ximply xwarmin'" xanthic

xylocopidae: 

 

 

*Franz Xaver Gabelsberger invents a shorthand and tags it with his own name c. 1817. 

Yakitori'd yaks...? 

 

Y...? No, Yeli,* Y's NOT for four

yakitori'd yaks. Yeah, yeah, you

you-know-what: Y's yakISH, yet's your

yashmak'd young'un's yak:

 

 

*Xia dynasty scholar Yeli Renrong invents Tangut script in 1036. 

Zipper'd zodiacs...? 
 

 

Z...? No, Zobo,* Z's NOT for four

zipper'd zodiacs. Zorillas...?

Zebras...? Zebus...? Zorses...? Zut! Z's

Zizi's** zaftig zack: 

 

*Liberian Wido Zobo invents Loma syllabary c. 1935. ** Oslo Cooper ("Ozzy") Bartholomew, call'd "Zizi" by his grandmother, is fond of his many pet zacks -- one of which is shown here with Ozzy's grandfather.

     Fin