Clive's Chronicles IV: The Great Bed-Mix-Up Blunder

The sun was too hot and the sand was too wide,

And Clive wished with all of his heart he could hide.

But a camel must walk, and a camel must trudge,

Through the dunes and the heat, without murmur or grudge.

Clive knew this was true, but he felt it was frightful—

The Sahara was rough, when he wished it delightful!

He dreamt of a home with a rug that was plush,

And a tiny wee clock that would never say, “Hush!”

He yearned for a chaise, and a teapot of blue,

And a life that was tidy and wonderfully New.

But this, friends, was Clive’s Catastrophic Complaint:

The line in his mind had grown fuzzy and faint!

It started with naps in the heat of the day,

When the desert was blinding and pale white and grey.

He’d dream of a place with some floof and some froof,

A tall castle turret that stood on a roof.

He’d wake and he’d find his own hump on his back,

Not the roof of a tower, or a sky-colored shack.

He’d shake out his head and he’d try to keep clear,

But the things that he saw began filling with fear!

For Clive, you see, lived in two worlds at once,

Like a fellow who’s smart but who acts like a dunce!

There was Ferdinand, grumpy, who drove the whole crew,

And Archibald, silent and dusty and true.

That was The Real, where the sand gave you scratches,

And life was about hauling burlap and patches.

But then there was The Not-Real, the world of his sleep,

Where secrets were whispered and fantasies creeped!

In Not-Real, there lived a small creature called Grunch,

Who guarded a berry that smelled like good lunch!

And the sky was all striped with a pink and a green,

The strangest darn colors that ever were seen!

Now here is the point where the trouble begins,

Where Clive got all twisted and tripped on his shins.

They stopped for the night, by a rock big and black,

And Clive curled his legs up and settled his pack.

The fire was glowing, the night was so calm,

But Clive’s mind was whirring, held fast by a psalm

Of worries and wishes, of fears and of doubts,

Of terrible things that the camel shouts about!

He drifted to sleep, and the dream did commence,

With a whoosh and a wobble that made little sense.

He stood in a kitchen, all chrome and bright shine,

The teapot was singing, “Oh, isn't life fine!”

A creature with ten little fingers, all green,

A waitress named Floopy, came onto the scene.

“We’re out of Earl Grey!” shrieked the Floopy with dread.

“We’re stuck with old Swizzleberry-Stipple instead!”

Clive screamed, “Not the Stipple! The taste is absurd!

It’s much too much fruit! It’s quite frankly deterred

My whole sense of self! I need Bergamot zing!

It’s the only good flavor a camel can sing!”

He fought Floopy-waitress, he jumped on the counter,

He demanded the Tea with a furious blunter!

He smashed a tall cup! He knocked over a spoon!

He yelled at the moon! (Which was just a balloon!)

He stomped on the ground with a frantic, hard thud—

“I’ll have Earl Grey now, or I’ll roll in the mud!”

Then something was slapping him, hard on the head!

“Clive! Wake up, you lump! You’re not quite dead!”

Clive opened his eyes, and the darkness was near,

The voice was loud, rough, and familiar, I fear.

It was Ferdinand’s voice, full of sputter and rage,

And the world was the desert, not the kitchen stage.

“You kicked down the lean-to!” cried Ferdinand low.

“You flattened the tent where the food ought to go!

You knocked over Jamal! He's covered in stew!

What in the Sam-Hill is wrong now with you?”

Clive looked at the lean-to, a mess on the ground,

And the merchant named Jamal, not making a sound,

All sticky and dripping with lentil and spice,

And Clive thought, “Well, that simply is not very nice.”

But the anger was real! The injustice was keen!

He saw Ferdinand stand with a face red and mean.

“He’s the one! He’s the Grunch! He’s the Stippleberry King!”

Thought Clive, mistaking the man for a thing!

The rage from the dream was still hot in his throat,

The memory of Swizzleberry-Stipple a terrible note!

“You fiend!” Clive screamed out, and he raised his great head.

“You hoard all the good tea, you’d rather see it dead!

You leave me with flavors that curdle and crash!

You Grunch! You Big Fraud! You complete piece of trash!”

He charged at poor Ferdinand, ready to fight,

But Ferdinand ducked with a startled quick fright!

Clive missed by a hair, and he tripped on his knee,

And landed right next to old Archibald, see?

Archibald didn’t move, didn’t shout, didn’t speak.

He just looked at Clive with a knowing, slow peek.

He chewed his dry cud, and he blinked once or twice,

At Clive, who was covered in dirt and in rice.

“I was fighting the Floopy!” Clive hissed in the sand.

“She wouldn’t give over the Tea in her hand!

And he,” Clive pointed hard at the fuming old man,

“Is the Grunch! The King Grunch! Who ruined the plan!”

Ferdinand threw up his hands and he sighed,

“Clive! You’re a camel! You can’t be denied

By a waitress named Floopy! Or a Grunch with bad cheer!

You’ve kicked every pot and you’ve filled us with fear!”

Clive scrambled up fast, he was covered in spots,

And he looked at the desert, all shadows and knots.

He looked at the sky, and it wasn’t green-striped.

He looked at his feet, and his tongue wasn't zipped.

“The teapot is gone,” Clive thought with a weep.

“The kitchen is gone. But I wasn’t asleep!”

He couldn't tell which was the dream and the fright,

The fight for the Earl Grey, or the mess in the night.

He turned to the group, looking tired and small.

“I… I am confused. Did I break something tall?

Did I truly accuse the esteemed Ferdinand, here,

Of being a Grunch, full of malice and sneer?”

Jamal crawled out slowly from under the stew,

And said, “Clive, you monster, the answer is Yes! And it’s true!”

He wrung out his turban, all sticky and wet.

“I am bruised and I’m sticky! The worst mess I’ve met!”

Clive slumped his great shoulders, his energy fled.

The two worlds had mixed in the foam of his head!

The fury of sleep had spilled out on the land,

And caused a great fracas right there in the sand.

“Oh, Ferdinand,” Clive sighed, a sound full of shame.

“I thought you were blocking my Bergamot fame.

I thought you were selling that terrible treat!

That Swizzleberry-Stipple that cannot be beat!

(By its own horrid nature, of being so strange!)”

Ferdinand stared. “Clive. You know that I change

The water for you! You drink what I pour!

There is no pink Stipple! There is no fruit store!”

Clive stood there, defeated, his mind now quite clear,

The real world was boring, but safe, standing here.

The dream world was thrilling, but full of bad taste,

And mixing the two had resulted in waste.

He looked at the mess and he knew what to do,

A gesture that's honest, and simple, and true.

He walked to the lean-to, and with his great strength,

He lifted the canvas to its proper length.

He nudged poor Jamal with his soft, velvet nose,

And sniffed at the stew that was stuck on his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Clive said. “For the fear and the fuss.

I’m sorry I dreamt you were bad-tempered Gruss.

I’ll help tidy up, with my hump and my might,

If you’ll only assure me there’s no Stipple tonight.”

Ferdinand looked at the camel, so humble and grand,

The silliest beast in the whole dusty land.

He saw the true fear in the camel’s soft eyes,

And he knew the poor creature was prone to surprise.

Ferdinand chuckled, a dry, raspy sound.

“Alright, Clive. No Stipple. No Grunches around.

Now settle yourself, and stop acting so strange,

Before I decide that your brain needs a change!”

Clive settled down quickly, his neurosis subdued,

The dream stayed away, as a good camel should.

The line was back straight, for the time being, at least,

But tomorrow, he knew, when the day was deceased,

The Floopies and Grunches and terrible Teas

Would return in his sleep, to disturb his poor ease.

And Clive had to live with the fear and the truth:

That his mind was a tangle, from sandal to hoof.

So he closed his great eyes, and he tried to stay sane,

Before all the nonsense began once again.