Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA
I still recall that London fog roll down the street that night
Back in the spring of '93, if my mind serves me right.
Good Mr. Holmes, my trusted friend, had called me to his place.
I didn't know that it would be for Sherlock's final case.
"Ah, Witless!", Holmes called out to me - his customary greet
As I walked in from out the chill of foggy Baker Street.
"A curious case has come my way and I'm forced to depend
On cunning, wits, intelligence - and you, my trusted friend."
"You know, of course, of Long John. He's the butcherer of words
Who writes the most pathetic rhymes the world has ever heard.
There is a ransom on his head for murdering pure verse
But I've been hired to find a fiend who writes poems ten times worse!"
"Dear Holmes!", I finally blurted out, unable to resist,
"You know that Long John tops the twenty Most Unwanted list.
No man alive can write that bad and not remain in jail.
Should you accept this duty, Holmes, you're surely bound to fail!"
But nothing that I said - no threats - no questions that I asked
Were able to convince Holmes to avoid this futile task.
So, off we went, in still of night through foggy London town
To find a poet worse than John and hunt that creature down.
We asked the hoboes on the streets but they just simply laughed.
We asked the patrons of the pubs who all replied, "You're daft!!"
We checked the sewers - alleys, too.The hunt went on 'till dawn
But we could not find anyone who wrote as bad as John.
The opium dens we checked. We even crashed an all-night party
Hosted by that evil fiend, Professor Moriarty.
But all our hunts were fruitless. Sherlock ranted, raved and cursed
For every fact uncovered proved that Long John was the worst.
"Dear Holmes", I cried, "please let it go. This hunt cannot go on.
There simply is no one alive who writes worse than Long John."
But Holmes would not abandon ship. He simply walked away
And legend says he hunts on still until this very day.
Years later, I discovered that my friend Holmes had been right!
For, in a pub across town, on that same cold London night
The fiend he sought was saying,"Folks, now I don't mean to brag
But I'm the greatest poet born. My friends call me Toerag......."