Said Watson Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It turns out now, my man
your Watson bloke was right.
He neither listened then
nor did he once consider;
he knew, innately
and he saw no need
none at all, to add
sheer silliness, or fickle thoughts
that always seem to seep
from elongated skulls,
receding lines of fur
and flares, round adenoids
extending upward though,
as if to greet the dawning of
refreshing views,
downcast and paperthin of lids
and tearless hollows
left by the hands of gods.
A pity though, the words of Holmes.