Miss Marple's Last Case
The body lay in the library
Sprawled across the floor,
The hands outflung, as if to say,
“Give me one chance more.”

The body was that of Miss Marple,
Old and shrewd and quaint,
The Colonel looked ferocious,
The maid was ready to faint.

The doctor looked up from the corpse,
Whose head was strangely angled,
“The cause of death is obvious,” he said,
“The poor old dear’s been strangled.”

The lawyer said she had made a will,
Just a simple bequest,
That all her goods and chattels
Were to go to Raymond West.

Her nephew, the novelist, stood aghast,
The looks he were getting were funny,
“I swear I didn’t do it,” he said,
“Even though she’s left me her money.”

The vicar bleated loudly,
“I don’t know what to do,”
“Be quiet, Len dear,” said Griselda his wife,
“We know it wasn’t you.”

Her dear friend, Mrs Bantry, said
“I told her to take heed,
Now things will never again be the same
In the village of St. Mary Mead.”

The cook was crying buckets of tears,
Her face was fiery red,
“I know we had our differences
But I never wished her dead.”


The gardener then came in the room,
In his hand was a ball of twine,
“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” he said,
“I was tyin’ up the vine.”

The butler then confessed that he
Had committed this dreadful crime,
“I couldn’t take it any more,” he said,
“Her being damned well right all the time.”

So watch out Hercule Poirot,
Your little grey cells may be fine,
But keep your eyes wide open,
You could be the next in line.


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