Those genteel Brits: So frightfully polite
in murder! Faking a rich uncle’s suicide,
they manifest a quite well-mannered sweet side,
when opening the door to the police.
Per’aps they fed the
poor old duffer poison,
his stinginess sufficient to incite
a sudden cold resolve, a bloody insight:
“One must do what one must for one’s position.”
And so, repressing
passion like a robot,
they ground up pills (for all Brit homes have pestles).
Not like us Yanks, who run around with pistols,
whenever we decide to do a “rub out.”
But once all suspects Scotland
Yard eliminate,
the killer makes confession over a lemonade.
