A.A. Milne Meets E.C. Bentley or Passing the Torch: a Song

On Monday when the sun is hot
I wonder to myself a lot:
Now is it true or is it not
that times are ripe for cleriwhat…?
 
On Tuesday when it’s cooler, then
I find I feel the strangest yen
to take up quill or broad-nibb'd pen
and bang me out a cleriwhen.
 
On Wednesday when the weather’s fair,
I rise at dawn to take the air.
Then, later, in my Bardic chair,
I scribble down a cleriwhere
 
On Thursday when a cloud-chok'd sky
informs me winds and rains are nigh,
I hum an Erben lullaby --
or, maybe, draft a cleriwhy.
 
On Friday, skies are, once more, blue.
I down a pint – no more than two –
and think, my dearest dear, of you,
and write a nonsense cleriwho.
 
On Saturday (I see it now)
it’s time to take a final bow.
But just before I bid you “ciao!”
I craft a coda clerihow.
 
On Sunday, out has run my luck.
Re cler’whate’ers I fear I’m stuck.
Ta-dah! I hereby pass the buck:
YOU write a cleriWTF!