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!  

(Show me someone who thinks it was the best of times and I'll show you someone who isn't paying attention.)

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

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

(The Irish Times called it the crime of the century.)

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 

(We do stock a line of moderately priced barbs.)

The Trials: 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 remold 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.