“How did it happen?
Why, where, and when?
What was the weapon?
And who did it, Sven?”
Sven smiled discreetly
His teeth were so pearly
To knock them out swiftly
I desired most greatly.
Detective Sven was quite famous
Since his memoirs, though mendacious,
Had been hailed by the credulous
Who of his faults were oblivious.
“Now listen, my dear Winslow,
The chief clue even the dullest allow
Is the strangeness of the Drano
Placed by the dead fellow.”
“Yet,” I said, “he didn’t die by that poison;
In fact, the coroner only made mention,
Of a single fatal blow and contusion
Caused by a club or blunt weapon.”
“True, very true, but use the old grey matter
That resides under your toupée disaster!
This hippie, his thick hair well past his shoulder,
Must have been a menace to his plumber!”
“But he wasn’t found beside a clogged drain
With a pipe wrench to bash in his brain
In a fit of anger the plumber couldn’t restrain
For being called upon time and time again.”
“No,” smiled Sven most condescendingly,
“He was found by Goose Lake, now, wasn’t he,
Yet his carcass remained perfectly free
Of all disgusting bird droppings and debris.
“No, no, he could not have been slain there,
But dragged by his lengthy golden hair
Whose sight the bald plumber could no more bear
Since he himself had less than his share.”
“But what of the Drano?” I expostulated.
“Why the bottle,” he answered, “is clearly related,
A token, though random, of all that was fated
Between the plumber and the hirsute dead!”
I solemnly removed my toupée to declaim
That to forgive and forget would be my aim
Lest I out of envy like the plumber most lame
Would murder the great detective Sven by name.