Holmes Minor

My name is Sherlock Holmes.
I know what others do not.
Yet in my many pockets
are items which I have forgot.

A penknife is essential
for any sleuth at work,
but with too delicate a release
it’ll bring one up with a jerk

imagine prying a window,
one a murderer has shut,
then hunting about in one’s waistcoat,
and finding oneself all cut up!

for measuring the length of clues
nothing beats a rule
but store it in your tailcoat
and you’ll look a bloody fool

imagine attending an opera
uncomfortably attired
you recall quick that measuring stick
when your seat’s hard-wired

a vest Webster’s is handy
when one wants the last word
but rooting about one’s chest
is comedy absurd

imagine facing a cypher
on which hangs peril or health
only to find that one’s word-book
has escaped one’s silk lining by stealth

I had my tailor do a ‘special’
to hold my favorite pipe,
but the matches that go with it,
well, they’re another stripe

imagine hunting a cricketer
a sticky-wicket brute
only to get hit with a ball
and all’s up in flames—the case and the suit!

though the sleuth’s body is a machine
it, on occasion, obliges a snack
and of the number of pies lost to distraction
I’m afraid I cannot keep track

imagine confronting a killer
a fiend of bullet and bruise
reaching for one’s pocket pistol
and pulling out custard-y ooze

My name is Sherlock Holmes.
I know what others do not.
Yet in my many pockets
are items which I have (regrettably) forgot.