Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

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March 18, 2002

Ah, spring approaches.

Don't we all, young and old, poor and disgustingly privileged, commonplace and peer alike, enjoy the onset of spring? Does it not stimulate the senses? Does it not tweak at the heartstrings? Even one's ward, young Penelope Windsor-Smythe, this week was moved to a poetical response (and a fine example it is of what someone who is eighty-fifth in line to the throne can do, when she sets her mind to it) to a most unpoetic letter sent her by a greasy admirer.

Likewise, one was moved to poetry oneself at the sight of it. One would hereby like to share with one's readers (who, one has it upon someone who ought to know better, are so many in number that were each a single mop, the entire sub-continent of India could be scrubbed clean in less than a fortnight with mops enough to spare to clean the streets of Paris from all that garlic-spitting those frogs cannot resist) a gentle poem, a lovely poem, a poem that one fancies will one day be entered among the Great Poems of the Ages, alongside such great names as Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Byron, and the excellent fellow who penned that corker about the young lady named Schmeenis.

Ode to a Cow Pat
By Sir Charles Grandiose, Bart.

Whilst walking and exchanging badinage
On a fine spring day with skies of blue,
One noticed something sticking like mucilage
Upon one's hand-pegged, fine leather shoe.

"What's this?" one cried, and reaching out
With fingers two scraped off the ripeness.
One's friend looked round. "What's this about?"
One sniffed. One reeled, said with a snipe, "Guess."

'Twas cattle poo, all greeny brown
With oaty bits besprinkled inside.
One realized, with a noble frown,
The smell alone should have made me died.

It is a pity that one's Muse
Was busy, that inglorious day.
Gladly would I ne'er have seen her, nor again her use,
Just for a spritz of Poo-Away.

Doing his very best to keep this world at one with the spirit of poetry, one remains for yet another fortnight,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Eddy writes:

Image: Ay, Ay, Sailor!Dear Sir Charles,

My girlfriend and I are not getting along anymore. We fight about some of the stupidest things. She does not have very good communication skills. She wont tell me if there is something wrong. I keep telling her that she needs to tell me if there is something wrong. How can I get her to open up? She has not had any meaningful relationships.


Sir Charles replies:

Eddy, my lad,

Ah yes, my boy. 'Tis always the case. She has not had any meaningful relationships. And yet you have, have you not, Eddy?

Eddy, I sense you are a boy with vast capacities of experience to draw upon. There was that two-week note-passing relationship you had with a girl in algebra as a sophomore, wasn't there? And you always thought your cocker spaniel had the most soulful brown eyes, didn't you?

You've had the kind of love only a boy can have with his right hand and a copy of the 1997 Victoria's Secret catalogue discovered in the cigarette ash-sprinkled stack of magazines on your mother's loo, haven't you, Eddy?

One advises you give the girl a bit of a break, my boy. Man of the world though you may be, not everyone lives their lives at the frenetic pace of a born heart-breaker.

With distinct sympathies for the girl, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Jenny writes:

Dear Sir Charles:

I'm having problems at my job. I just seem unable to get into it, you know. I know I need the money and any job's better than one, but making orange juice is really really boring. I'm thinking of some other occupation but I really don't know what else I'd be good at.

What should I do?

Your fan,
Jenny in Florida

Sir Charles replies:

Young Jenny,

You will, my girl, never keep that job at the orange juice factory if you don't learn to concentrate.

Calling for a rimshot to accompany that inestimable set-up, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Image: I'm An Old Cowhand On the Rio GrandeA stable lad writes:

Dear young Penelope Windsor-Smythe:

O young Penelope Windsor-Smythe,
As soon as from me you get a whiff,
Directly you wish to ride away
On such a lovely beautiful day.

And, I fear, I am not quite complete,
To ever really ever compete,
With that dastardly blacksmith of old:
Sir Colin Bates, his name is I'm told.

I do not ask for marriage;
Just to attend your carriage.
I would feel happy as friends;
But of course it all depends:

On whether you would like me
And if Sir Charles would not strike me,--
A flogging to death would not be good,
Losing my stead in the neighbourhood.

What am I saying? O, I do not know.
Of course I will help you, at the horse show.
Now of these fine verses, I will take my leave;
Be not full of curses; why not go and weave?

A stable lad

Young Penelope Windsor-Smythe replies:

Dear stable boy,

Sitting in my Silver Rolls,
I read your letter, thinking, "Foals
Really need a stable boy
To feed and groom them. Oh what joy

To receive, from grubby hand
A letter from a foreign land!
A letter from a willing boy
Who on our staff would find employ!"

But then I thought, and took it back.
Of gentility, I sense a lack.
It does sound harsh: I'd rather spit,
Than hire a Yankee piece of utter commonness who didn't even have the courtesy to send one a photograph of his manly thighs or a letter of reference!

Frostily, one remains,
Penelope Windsor-Smythe

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