Not This Time, Moriarty

Dr. Watson got a call,
Anonymous, of course,
He couldn't recognize it,
But it was mean, and hoarse.

It said, "Go check the dumpster
Down where they park the trains,
And take along a body bag
For Sherlock Holmes' remains.

We just fed him a dinner
Well-laced with cyanide.
It must have disagreed with him.
The poor chap up and died."

Well, Watson reached the dumpster,
But found, to his surprise,
Sherlock sitting on the rim,
Balanced on his thighs,

Pants around his ankles,
Bare bum on the inside,
And on his face a smile of comfort
And of quiet pride.

"I knew," he said, "That they'd depend
On poison I'd been fed.
They dumped me in the dumpster
And left me here for dead.

But years ago I learned to carry
Fast cathartic foams."
"Amazing!" gloated Watson.
"Alimentary," pooh-poohed Holmes.

Copyright; Tad Lawson
Email: Tagady@aol.com