Is Sperm Like A Whale?

The Fool has a wonderfully linky post at his place. Make haste and hither thee there if you enjoy fine writing and literary suggestions deluxe. Much the Renaissance Man, the Fool. His praises for a new book from Francis Heaney are well deserved. When you have titles including Emily Dickinson’s 'Skinny Domicile', Alfred Lord Tennyson’s 'Errol Flynn’s not Dead', and William Shakespeare’s 'Is Sperm Like a Whale?', how can any silly (or serious) scholar resist?

Quite simply,Francis Heaney is a genuis. His new book, Holy Tango, Literary Parody In Anagrams is such a hoot to read. A parody based on anagrams of famous authors' names, I highly recommend it as a New Year Resolution "must read" addition. Heaney's verbal dexterity incites my envy gene for sure.

Books XYZ has the tome available, and the best part, you can contribute part of the profits to your public education institution of choice.

Here is one of my favorites from the many delicious selections:

MULTICOLORED ARGYLE SEA
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he taketh lots of drugs,
And he thinks his beard is made of snakes
And his body crawls with bugs.

He spies a wayward Wedding-Guest,
And pulls the man aside.
“Unhand me! Surely thou art mad,
Thy pupils are so wide.”

He holds him with his twitchy stare—
“There was a boat,” quoth he.
The Wedding-Guest stands frozen there
Without the will to flee.

“A multicolored argyle sea
Was where our trip began,
We sailed o’er oceans deep and wide
And measureless to man.

And then the winds did drive us on
Into a hidden river,
Where sirens’ voices called with songs
To make a stout man shiver.

The trees there all bore tangerines,
To save us from the scurvy.
The sky was of an orange hue,
And things seemed topsy-turvy.

Flowers towered in the sky,
The sunlight showing through;
A green and yellow light fell on
The lost and dazzled crew.

Held captive by a siren’s call
The men were drawn ashore.
Though they felt sure they’d seen her face,
It seemed she was no more.

At length we came upon a bridge;
A fountain stood nearby,
Where wooden centaurs feasted on
A great marshmallow pie.

And as the centaurs rocked in place
(They could not move to caper),
A host of hansom cabs appeared,
Each one made out of paper.

The drivers beckoned us inside,
And, helpless to resist,
We took our seats; they cracked their whips
And rode into the mist.

The hansoms crackled in the wind,
Grew soggy with the rain—
Just as it seemed they must collapse,
They left us by a train.

The station porters’ eyes were dull,
Their skin was plasticine.
We saw reflected in their ties
Our faces, pale and lean.

And then we heard the siren’s voice:
It called to us anew!
Beyond the stile she stood and stared
And bid us all come through.

O’er the turnstile each man went,
Clearing it with a leap.
And I too would have followed her,
But that I fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was alone
Upon the argyle deep.”

“God’s mercy, ancient Mariner—
At least thou didst survive.
’Tis hard your fellow crew was lost
With none but thee alive.

But thank the Lord who saved thee, sir,
From passing through death’s door.”
“Canst thou not see? No joy for me
Remains in this world o’er.

For I still dream of her sweet face,
And think of her sweet song.
I’d rather I had followed her
Than that my life be long.

I see her in the sky above
With diamonds in her hair.
’Tis like a broken bone to know
I cannot join her there.

This tale is all I have of her;
I tell it but to praise
The many-colored bits of glass
That sparkled in her gaze.”

The Mariner, whose hair is long,
Who feels he needs a snack,
Is gone, although the Wedding-Guest
Attempts to call him back.

He shakes his head like one amazed,
Who knows not what he knows,
And, with a halting step, back home
To Liverpool he goes.