A lament for the recently deceased, in most unusual circumstances, Mr. Black
Alas Poor Mr. Black,
were you mister or were you doctor?
We may never know.
Neither may we ever know how it was
that you became a chalky white
outline on the floor by the stairs,
From Mr. Black to dusty, white,
really, such a cruel thing, life.
So many questions, Mr. Black,
did you die where we found you, there,
or is it possible, probable, likely even,
that you were dispatched elsewhere
and placed there to confuse,
not a murder scene then
just another clever ruse?
Miss Scarlett, was it you, down
in the dark of the cellar
desperate for some light,
Scarlett, Scarlett were you quick,
killing him with a heavy candlestick?
Did you, colourful in the conservatory,
Miss Peacock, remove from your handbag,
so demurely, a delicately decorated
pearl handled pert little ladies pistol.
One shot would suffice, from Annie Oakley
back to Miss Peacock in a thrice?
Oh saintly innocent Reverend Green,
is that look of horror you display
because a murdered man you have seen,
or do you recall your reaction with a rope
when the victim went too far in the library
and maliciously maligned the Pope?
You were hungry, Colonel Mustard
foraging in the kitchen for food?
Surrounded by plates, by cups, forks,
and yes, knives! Were you not once
upon a time, a man who thought so little
of death and of killing
that you would easily order other men
to kill yet more, other men?
Did a lust for death come over you
good Colonel, as you saw the red blood
dribble from the roasting beef,
resting, so red, on the refrigerator shelf?
Finally, how are you, so sweetly smiling,
Mrs. White? So lady like and languid
you must have been, in the lounge, a
lady beyond reproach. Alone, unseen, did you
throw into all the works a spanner which wrenched
poor Mr. Black from this world to another?
You look so innocent, not at all shady,
to suspect you would surely be crazy!
Yet there he lies or at least his shadow does
the late lamented Mr. Black.
Is that how fragile life really is,
the roll of a dice and it’s
goodbye to all of this?
One thought on “Cluedo, a poem, or is it?”
No more to be said Kevin than Paul F. Lenzi know great writing when it comes his way.