Murder mystery poem

And another stray poem

The Duvet: a murder mystery

 

The only objets trouvé Poirot found beneath the duvet

Were a body and a vodka bottle (drained),

But both of them were tucked down under Common Eider duck-down,

And the victim had been permanently brained.

 

‘The mam’selle ’as ’ad a pasting,’ said the sleuth to Captain Hastings,

‘And the life of ’er is stifled. Here is death.

But by all my little grey cells, ’er manner straightaway tells

Exactly how she drew ’er final breath.’

 

‘I had better shake a leg,’ said the Captain to the egghead,

‘Round up witnesses, and solve this strange affair.’

Poirot fingered his moustache, and he muttered – not too harsh –

Mon vieux, that is not strictly nécessaire.’

 

‘The murderer, at heart, thinks this not a work of art.

The Tate Modern, where we stand – ah! it distressed ’im.

This body, not unfeminine, is that of Tracey Emin in

Her bed. Find Brian Sewell – and arrest ’im.’

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