Murder On Baker Street Poem by Dann Thomas

Coming into the parlour I realised something was wrong.
Holmes was disturbed, his violin wasn't scratching out a song.
In a gown, elbows on armrest, fingertips pressed together,
Eyes closed, eyebrows knitted together in consternation.
Lips mumbling in spurts of anger and condemnation.
I couldn't figure out if he was on a Case; or just bad weather.

I looked around wondering, 'What was this new Mystery? '
Or was it the after-effects of a late night opium fantasy?
Holmes was on to a case that was certainly disturbing him
'Was someone killed, Holmes? ' 'Do we take up guard? '
'Have they been informed, the detectives from the Yard? '
Staring pensively, my questions seemed to bounce off him.

Finally, he muttered 'This is murder most fowl, Watson'.
'Need to get to the bottom of this, ' he said toying with his gun.
'But who was killed, Holmes, have they left a clue? '
'It is the gingerbread man, ' he said with a sinister eye.
'What! A piece of bread? My dear Holmes, ' said I,
And I thought one of your culprits was giving his due.

'This here gingerBread man looks fine to me.'
'Precisely, but if you would break a piece and see.'
'Watson, there is garlic in the gingerbread man'
'Ah Yes, a fine ginger taste, but ouch! is that garlic?
This is terrible, Holmes, hope it doesn't make me sick'.
Holmes chuckled and brought out his tobacco can.

'I wonder where it came from? Holmes do you have any idea?
"Hum! The Chef trained in Ferrandi, Paris is from South India.'
'Your methods are amazing. How did you deduce that, Holmes? '
'Elementary my dear Watson, I have often ordered at mabaker.in
His food - pies, cakes and desserts are to die for, a heavenly sin.
But the gingerbread man can forever and ever stay home.'