“Murder”, Lady Grace screeched, “Murder most foul!”
Then she emitted a blood curdling howl.
For before her lay a twisted cadaver
And it appeared to look rather, yes rather,
Like her husband, dearest Tom
(Although without his usual aplomb).

A hefty replica of a Ming Dynasty jar
That had been standing on his escritoire.
Had collided with Sir Thomas’s head,
And left him undeniably dead!
But how was the jar propelled through the air?
Coming sharply to rest in Sir Thomas’s hair.
This is a dilemma that must be worked out,
With Sir Thomas sustaining such a hard clout!

“We must call the police, phone Constable Clod”
“Whoever did this, we must catch the sod!”
Constable Clod eventually arrived on his bike.
Saying, “Such as this I haven’t seen the like”.
“I think reinforcements we’d better call in”
“That Belgian gent!” he said with a grin.
To Hercule Poirot he was referring,
With his funny moustache and demeanour unerring.
(And don’t forget his “pince nez” glasses
Funny specs that make folks look like asses)

As in his stories, Hercule was soon on the spot
Arriving by taxicab to study the plot
“Mon Ami, I must use my little grey cells”
“To solve this case, to ring some bells”.
He carefully studies the scene of the crime,
Not seeming concerned at all with the time.
“Aha”, he said, “I now see it all”,
“This is what I learn about Sir Thomas’s fall”.
“For fall he did, on his escritoire, but
Then the jar tumbled off onto his nut!”
So murder it wasn’t, we gratefully say.
Now we’d like the whole thing to just go away!