The shadow of a doubt grows from suspicion,
Through all the thirty-nine steps in between,
To frenzy, murder, and then intermission—
Most often, though, the wrong man’s on the screen.
The nimble master-mind who drew us here,
Who’d visit terrors on us in the dark,
Stage fright and then direct our rising fear,
Was only in one crowd scene in the park.
Though plots get stale, his cameos seem ageless.
We laugh to see him: passerby-in-chief,
Who, there amid his intrigues, acts quite blameless.
We laugh, like thieves he’s set to catch a thief.
Frank
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-- Frank
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