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Best Poems Written by Charles Clive

Below are the all-time best Charles Clive poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Charles Clive Poem

She was a dairymaid, oh so sweet;
many a year ago.
Her figure was trim, her hair was neat,
with ringlets tied up in a bow.
And many a farmer would leave his plough,
the turkeys and chickens, and even the sow,
to stand and stare, a-mopping his brow,
and watch her a-milking go!

For, they love little Marigold,
sweet little Marigold,
answer to every man’s dream.
They all start a-swooning,
when she gets a-spooning
out dollops of thick clotted cream!

Now Harry had horses, a harrow and cart;
many a year ago.
Yet nobody managed to capture his heart,
but many a girl had a go!
Until the poor fellow, early in May,
when resting, awhile, from stacking the hay;
he saw her pass by, ‘twas late in the day.
She set all his passions aglow!

For, he loved little Marigold,
sweet little Marigold,
answer to every man’s dream.
And Harry got swooning,
when she started spooning
out dollops of thick clotted cream.

Now Danny was dapper, a bit of a lad;
many a year ago.
He’d brag and he’d boast, of ladies he’d had,
in rain and the sun and the snow.
This elegant card, when down in the yard,
was feeding the goats and taken off guard,
he fell for her charms; it hit him quite hard.
She set all his passions aglow!

For, he loved little Marigold,
sweet little Marigold,
answer to every man’s dream.
And Danny got swooning
when she started spooning
out dollops of thick clotted cream.

Poor Percy, the poacher, was lonely and sad;
many a year ago.
The Landlord’s fat pheasants, he frequently had;
but never a lass did he know.
One day he was pulling a hare from the trap,
when smitten quite hard, a right thunderclap,
her dazzling smile befuddled the chap.
She set all his passions aglow!

For, he loved little Marigold
sweet little Marigold,
answer to every man’s dream.
And Percy got swooning
when she started -spooning
out dollops of thick clotted cream.

Sir Walter was wealthy. His furrows were long;
many a year ago.
‘Twas brandy he loved. He drank it quite strong,
in pub after pub he would go.
He wasn’t too happy, he had to admit,
to give it all up and totally quit,
in case his performance should suffer, a bit,
when passion was all set aglow!

For he loved little Marigold,
sweet little Marigold,
Answer to every man’s dream.
Sir Walter got swooning
when she started spooning
out dollops of thick clotted cream.

Young Bertie was batty and thick as a brick;
many a year ago.
He bumbled around, he wasn’t too quick;
of ladies, he just didn’t know.
When Marigold heard a sound that was slurred,
it wasn’t a bird, nor sheep in a herd,
much more like a grunt and less like a word,
it set all her passions aglow!

Now poor little Marigold,
sweet little Marigold,
Is mooching around in a dream.
No longer a-spooning;
at Bertie, she’s swooning.
He doesn’t like thick clotted cream!

For Cyndi's 'Pub Song' Competition. Inspired by The Wurzles 'Ive got a brand new Combine Harvester'.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

Saint George and the Dragon


When I spotted Saint George in a van,
I feared that his horse might be lame.
Or worse, in a Doggomeat can,
when hurt in some chivalric game.

Saint George, it appeared was not happy,
now carried around in this way.
He used to dress well and quite snappy,
with armour and sword on display.

It didn’t seem right, when I saw him,
in wellies and minus a hat.
I expect my Saint to be trim,
not looking like some bureaucrat.

 “You there!” said Saint George to a swain,
 “I need you to help with my quest.
They’re wanting a Dragon thing slain,
because it’s becoming a pest.”

“Noble Saint, may it please you to hark,
‘tis Ramblers and Naturalists Day.
They’re swarming all over his Park
and demanding a new Right of Way.”

“Yon Dragon is hid in his cave,
all cringing from lads and the lasses.
He claims he’s no longer so brave,
when facing the wrath of the masses.”

The Saint then climbed back in his banger,
but soon got it stuck in the mud.
He next was assailed by the clamour
of peace keepers baying for blood!

The Entrance, he got a surprise,
when told he must purchase a ticket.
‘For seeing a Dragon who cries,
when hiding behind a small thicket!’

Saint George soon fastened his tabard,
(of bio-degradable tin),
then drew out his gun from its scabbard
and gingerly ventured within.

 “Brave Saint! You have come and will save me,
before I am forced back to crime
or ghastly do-gooders enslave me.
Thank goodness you’ve got here in time.”

“I’ve finished all Dragonly trades
and prisoners now been released.
 I love little children and maids.
My fire fighting days are all ceased.



Saint George said,  “I must go ahead.
This isn’t the world as we knew it.
The age of old Chivalry’s dead.”
He pointed his gun – and he slew it!

~



For Judy's "Hail to the Dragon Slayer' Competition.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

How To Get On In Society



Original version:

Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me.

Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know that I wanted to ask you-
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.


~
My version:


Do phone for a pizza Norman,
since Olga is having a strop.
Then say that I want it delivered,
you’re not going down to the shop.

We’ll have to get Desmond to call in,
the sauna’s beginning to leak.
My microwave’s out of commission;
the hoover’s beginning to squeak.

I must send a text to Jemima.
We may get an email from Max
and when you’ve stopped surfing on Google,
do put some more bumph in the fax. 

Now give me some thoughts for our party,
the one at the end of the week.
It’s got to be terribly ethnic,
all ouzo and feta and Greek.

I want to have proper moussaka,
souvlaki that’s straight from the grill,
oregano and fresh coriander,
all drizzled about with some dill.

Oh Norman!  For God’s sake kick Olga,
she’s getting me rather un-nerved.
And tell her to open the pizza,
I do want it daintily served.


~

 



Taken from 'How to Get On in Society@  by John Betjeman for the Copy Cat Contest.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

Old Age



In my youth, I am sure I was slim,
a figure both modest and trim;
but now I am old, I'm frequently told
my features are wrinkled and grim. 

As a girl, I was agile and quick,
my dancing was stylish and slick;
but sadly it’s gone, I just hobble on
now helped with the aid of a stick.

I attracted young boys by the score,
un-limited lovers, galore.
No more sex appeal, instead they all reel
and claim I'm a dowdy old bore.

In my prime, I would argue, roughshod,
Demosthenes then was my god.
But now I just drone, I mumble and groan
and gripe like a grumpy old sod.

All day I just look at the walls;
the clock on the mantelpiece crawls.
But is that a knock, a turn of the lock?
I do hope that somebody calls.


~

For Black Eyed Susan's 'Aging' Competition.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

Poetry Teacher's Confession




Oh dear kind Lord, I beg you and,
when on my knees to pray,
I need a little helping hand
to guide me through this day.
I have to face a motley band
who can’t think what to say.

I give them all the guff and gen
to help them understand.
The work is very simple when
they’re organised and planned.
And yet their fumbling specimen
look strictly second hand.

I guide them all, the usual way,
to seek some homonym.
To no avail, day after day,
their efforts still look grim.
Oh please may I confess and say;
“I find them very dim!”

~

For Anne's "Confessions" Competition.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

My First Car



My lawyer drives a Jaguar,
a slim and glitzy marque.
He seldom ventures near the Law,
(the work's done by his clerk),
buts sends in bills at Partners Rates;
that avaricious shark.

My Broker's Merc is spanking new;
it takes his fishing rod.
He, as of right, once gently slipped
in shoes his father trod.
All pomp and circumstance he struts,
this self appointed God.

Accountants' BMWs
have litres by the score.
Mine's filled his up with gadgetry
and Wilton on the floor.
And now he's had his Coat of Arms
emblazoned on the door.

I used to have a set of wheels,
a Morris Minor van.
It was a dear and much loved friend
which ran and ran and ran.
I polished it with tender care
and was its greatest fan.

Alas!  It's gone to pay the bills.
But why?  I cannot see.
All day they guff and huff and puff
and then demand a fee.
I do not want their 'sound advice',
I want a car - for me!

~




For Carol Brown's 'First Car' Contest by Charles Clive.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

My Valentine



Remember, my sweet Valentine,
the moment you said you'd be mine.
A rug by the fire,
we shared our desire
and pledged that our hearts should entwine.

~


For Poet Destroyer's Valentine Competition.

Details | Charles Clive Poem

My First Pony

Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.

Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.

We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.

I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.

You're calling my name?  Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my?  Have you answered my plea?

Miss Garner, Miss Garner.  I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!

~

For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.

Best Poems Written by Charles Clive

A Modern Curse

The Dingledot

Sweet Little Marigold

Saint George and the Dragon

How To Get On In Society

Old Age

Poetry Teacher's Confession

My First Car

My Valentine

My First Pony