It was in the mid 40’s when Cluedo appeared,
The parlor Whodunnit that soon was endeared
To murder fans all over England to play,
Then crossed the Great Pond to the U S of A.
TV and tee shirts and a movie left room
For internet playing, you guessed it, on Zoom.
Of English design, in its earliest mode
By a couple named Pratt up the Birmingham Road.
The gaming rights, later when sold by the Pratts,
Secured them for life, funding Holiday flats.
Waddington published, then Hasbro took charge
Revamps brought changes, some small, others large.
A mansion of rooms in the house Tudor Close,
A dastardly murder, and nobody knows
Who wielded what weapon, what room held the corpse,
Three cards hid the answers, in the Cellar, of course.
Nine rooms in the house where the victim might die,
Six weapons, six suspects, all three must comply.
A room to play billiards, a place to go study,
A lounge and a kitchen, a conservatory,
A room set for dining, a ballroom for dance,
The great hall or parlor, for formal events,
And two secret passages making connections
To rooms in four corners for travel deceptions.
Lead Pipe and Revolver, The Dagger and Spanner,
(None could survive a security scanner),
The Rope and the Candlestick could be a pub
Along Stratford Road (but ‘ay, there’s a rub’.)
Others, ill fated, the dumbbell and axe,
A trophy, a syringe, and bomb got the sack.
A palette of suspects, a victim Sam Black,
Whose millions gave motive behind the attack,
A doctor by title, blackmailer most shoddy,
Whose name Hasbro changed to become Mr. Boddy.
Six guests were attending the party that night,
Each one had a motive, the means, and the guise,
And each stood to gain from the doctor’s demise.
Miss Scarlett, the slinky sloe-eyed sexy vamp,
Considered by most a society tramp,
Escorting, cavorting with men in high places,
Too many, too fleeting, to remember their faces.
Her sharp blood red nails, one of Hot Nails’ Hot Deals,
A stiletto concealed in her 5 inch high heels.
The Colonel, so proper, imperial and proud,
Before him most other men groveled and bowed,
In truth he was puffed up, and fearful of shame,
From Yellow to Mustard he restyled his name.
An old Smith and Wesson he kept at his side,
His big game hunt exploits he storied with pride.
Poor Mrs. White, old housekeeper and nurse,
Might well have arrived in her own private hearse.
At one time a cook, she had a collection
Of razor sharp knives for cuisine and protection,
Proved useless, as Hasbro decided to out her,
Replaced by Miss Orchid, pink aura about her.
This slim Doctor Orchid, a young PhD,
Her doctorate earned in plant toxicology.
She secretly carried a small cyan vial
Of nightshade she picked near an old country stile.
Her innocent face hid a devious mind
Obsessed with strange potions of a dangerous kind.
The guest with the brains, Professor Plum, I presume,
Who sneakily leered at the guests in the room,
A pipe in his hand and a dusty bow tie,
Expounding his research on the uncommon fly.
In round horn rimmed glasses, looking totally owlish,
Disguising a penchant for murder most foulish.
The queenly Ms. Peacock, most regal in blue,
Her hat plumed with feathers, her hair the same hue,
She sipped at her teacup with pinky raised high,
While chatting of skylarks in a Shellian sky.
Birding her passion, she never got bored,
Her field glasses hung from her neck on a cord.
Sam’s corpse was laid out in the lounge where he perished,
The great formal parlor, a room that he cherished.
A candlestick stood by his head on each side,
One covered with details that showed how he died,
With fingerprints telling whose hand dealt the blow,
Which murdering guest to the gallows would go.
From a place he’d been hiding behind a dark screen,
Slipped the irreverent parson, the Reverend Green.
An unctuous demeanor and face like a fish,
The impious parson from the local parish.
He scanned the grim faces of guests round the bier,
Then studied the candlesticks flickering near.
“Good Lord!” he decried, “Those dull sticks need a polish,”
With the hem of his cassock he wiped to demolish
All traces revealing who done the vile deed.
”And now let us pray,” said the Parson, “Godspeed.
May our sins be forgiven, forgotten in time,”
(Plus all those committed in rhythm and rhyme.)
“Farewell to Sam Black! May we meet him again
Next time we play Cluedo, God Bless and Amen.”
most excellent love the swing to it
Marvelous! Bravo!