holmes_minor | Poem: A Murder most Fowl

Author: debriswoman
Rating: general
Word Count: 411
Posted on ffnet as part of a Holmesian December challenge,
Inspiration...I blame Frankles entirely...

A Murder Most Fowl

~0~

A conversation interrupted:

Doctor Watson at the Yard;

Office door is flung wide open,

Holmes swans in and slams it, hard.

Lestrade and Watson stare at Holmes,

He's covered in a yellow fluff;

An egg sized swelling on his brow,

He looks as though he's had enough.

A chair's pulled out for Holmes to sit on,

Catch his breath and start to grouse;

He's been to Wilson's,

The notorious canary trainer's,

Unkempt house.

A glass of water, grateful swallow,

Clears his throat, and starts to speak,

Declares it won't be long at all,

Till Wilson's up before the beak.

Composure back, he crows a little,

Laughs at his infernal luck;

Rubs his bruised and tender wound,

"A shame that I forgot to duck,"

He tells them of his strange adventure,

Stalking Wilson, eagle-eyed;

Watching every single movement,

Nowhere for his foe to hide.

Trailed him to his cheep, rough lodgings;

Part of town where lowlife flock;

Waited till he'd put the lights out,

Cased the joint and picked the lock.

Confronted Wilson in his bedroom,

Sorting loot, his guilt inferred.

Wilson gave no explanation,

Did not say a dicky bird;

Scorned Holmes presence, took no notice,

Continued with the task in hand;

Counting notes out, risks ignored;

An ostrich with its head in sand.

This carried on till Holmes announced

That Wilson's fellow thief was dead,

As dead in fact, as any dodo...

Wilson paused, and shook his head;

His feathers ruffled, interest piqued,

He turned to Holmes, then craned his neck

And whistled, his canary call,

Then smiled at Holmes and hit the deck.

A fluttering yellow storm appeared,

Holmes lost his footing, staggered back;

Whirled around by flapping wings,

He hit the door, a stunning crack.

Wilson preened,

As proud as any peacock,

With his clever ruse.

Untroubled at his sidekick's fate;

That stool pigeon he'd killed...not news.

He raised his gun, and aimed at Holmes,

But, something he had overlooked;

Canary droppings on the floor.

He slipped and fell...his goose was cooked!

Holmes waited till the yellow perils

Found the open door, flew high

Then carefully he crossed the floor;

Of course, once bittern, twice as shy.

"So Wilson, quite unconscious,

Was dispatched to prison cell, and then..."

Holmes paused to glare at Watson,

Fussing round him like a mother hen.

Lestrade absorbed his thrilling tale,

Unblinking, like a watchful owl.

"...and then, each jigsaw piece was there;

I'd solved the case!

This crime most fowl!"

~0~