A week of contemplation passed
before choice made, resolve amassed.
Cold comfort mine, most befitting;
decision his, take up knitting.
Excursions ‘cross metropolis
for yarns exact to standard his.
God knows how many trips downstairs,
he took, upsetting Hudson’s cares,
in search of aid and sage advice,
just purling once, then knitting twice.
Know-it-all reduced to tatters;
long nights spent on loom-spun matters.
My fellow lodger’s furious
needling was quite curious.
Out-thrown from home by grave ennui,
pursuing woolen-free buoy
quayside, without mizzen-mast-toff
rum-purls eluding this cast-off
swine, I drowned my sorrow, turned cheek
towards Baker Street, met vision meek
unexpected on my return.
‘Very new tricks old hounds can learn,
Watson, for you, with high regards!’
X marked the trove: a scarf in yards.
‘You did it for me?!” I cried;
zealously, I donned it with pride.