In 1896, a certain sleuth and sleuth’s right hand were hunting clews at dawn. Their breaking fast was lost to tracking truth, on went the morn, displays of wits and brawn.
Not yet mid-day but energies expired, a pause was due, a station picked as site at which to find the droll repast required, at which to slake their thirst and have a bite.
A Sunday meal for Saturday strivers. A blend of morsels, savory and sweet. Perched on luggage freight, they sipped revivers, and tucked away the rations, quick and neat.
They sat on trunks. They watched trains come and go. They brunched atop the modern portmanteau.
The Portmanteau Sonnet
and sleuth’s right hand were hunting clews at dawn.
Their breaking fast was lost to tracking truth,
on went the morn, displays of wits and brawn.
Not yet mid-day but energies expired,
a pause was due, a station picked as site
at which to find the droll repast required,
at which to slake their thirst and have a bite.
A Sunday meal for Saturday strivers.
A blend of morsels, savory and sweet.
Perched on luggage freight, they sipped revivers,
and tucked away the rations, quick and neat.
They sat on trunks. They watched trains come and go.
They brunched atop the modern portmanteau.