I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
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