Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.
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Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
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The Winner: Richard Grantham -
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Within a tubby grandma's legs
An intern gyno stands;
If he gives the hairy clam a smear
And then inspects her glands,
The matron surely starts to muse,
"I wish he'd warmed his hands."
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By a brothel's wan red light,
An untidy harlot waits.
She's a nymph, lady of the night,
Advertising her cash rates.
What sin turns man's mind, she can dismiss;
Men are smug degenerates.
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3rd place: Adrian Hickford -
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Amidst the many tangl'd sheets
An anagrammist lies.
The 'gram begun, she hardly eats,
Try "northward", "snow-blind eyes".
A phrase miscast, now turn and churn
"I've finished it!" she sighs.
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In the street, signwriter, ladders high,
This man was at his trade;
Inscribing many, many letters,
Such shine... they mustn't fade;
Many shops, vans, A-boards, walls,
Grand enough he made.
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Stage-rear was a shy bassman,
His hands sure 'til the end,
As his trusty Fender's new strings a-rang,
With an almighty bottom-end;
On his rhythm and ace timing,
Ah, music'll ever depend!
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Thy hangman's tryst with dreaded death
Comes as an alarum clangs;
He finds law's business very grim -
The human's horrid pangs!
Date with eternity on a limb
Is set - the sinner hangs!
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Plastic surgery's an art.
I'll straighten noses, unhang ears,
Trim chinbones, warts,
and hammy thighs. Oh, she sniveled tears
when things didn't mend:
Madam - beauty fades with years!
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Behind this grassy hill, the stressed
Assassin armed a gun,
Then aimed at the new target's chest,
Planning a stormy run
(Ah, and framing Harvey Oswald) when
"This crummy bit is done."
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The lawyer and the hangman are
Discussing some harsh trends.
The hangman begs to visit bars,
With 'get-us-pissed' intent,
As his chum halts. "Darn, answer, lad!"
"Yer on my tail, my friend."
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Sensed in my corridor
Trusted manager H. Gannet sits;
And he manages his hen business
Which has grand smart profits;
And his wallet gets heavy (myth?),
But he's really a damn nitwit!
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Enshrine men in the churchyard -
Burrows the fat gravedigger sad,
When tenant in tight hole (pant!),
As he starts burying his dad,
His mamma's sad as well,
My nasty intense loss is mad.
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Behind hammers, metal nuts,
Toils the mighty handyman,
Rugged strain, sweat smell,
If anybody can do this, he can!
Washers, eager grunts, wrist stress,
And he has red paint in his van.
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Within the actual muddy gallows,
The horrible hangman rests,
I, that vain ready harsh man,
Then hanging society's pests,
Murderers, madmen and assassins,
Friend, they swing best.
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In the yard - in it's sandy -
Gym teacher Ms. Gill Smith ran
Her big thighs wavered and she
Sweated into her head-band
My stars, Ms.! (snort!) What plain face 'n' ugliness!
Turns out she's a man!
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What's this warm nursing home?
Sat the old gray granny,
I, with half bent strange old men,
Husband's dead, she's ninety,
Screaming demand at nurses (spirit!),
Ahh, see harmless activity.
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Rightly he whistles and cut U -
Smart Danish plastic surgeon who sat,
Made hands, breasts, thighs 'n' eyes,
Rise 'n' removing terrible fat,
'n' grannies end as maidens,
Whammy!!! Handy that.
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Right on the dusty grassy lane
Watch, a smart sturdier postman,
First strides 'n' ambles, swerving,
He had my nice mail in his hand,
With sadness, then one day,
He gets a gun 'n' hear BLAM!!!!!!
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