Work Text:
Lestrade was watching o’er his town,
Working with all his might:
He did his very best to make
His London safe at night—
But he was not the only one
Not seeing what’s in sight.
His Sergeant sneering sulkily,
Because she thought the Freak
Had got no business to be there
Her secrets boldly leaked—
“It is not right of him,” she said,
“Too much past us he’d sneak.”
The roads as wet as wet could be,
No pedestrians would try.
You could not see the stars, because
The clouds filled up the sky:
No Network hid in alleys, damp,
To struggle to stay dry.
The Spider and the Detective
Were walking close at hand;
They sighed like anything to see
Such imbeciles of man:
“If ordinary peasants died,”
One said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven men with seven tanks
Exploded half the town.
Do you suppose,” the Spider said,
“That they could burn it down?”
“I doubt it,” said the Detective,
And glared his bitter frown.
“O People, come and walk with us!”
The Spider did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the river’s beach:
We shall regale you by the score.”
He’d planned a tale for each.
Dear Molly Hooper looked at him,
A small step up she took:
Miss Molly Hooper played along
And took another look—
Meaning to say she did not choose
The company of this crook.
But four reporters hurried up,
All eager for the scoop:
Their notepads clear, their pencils sharp,
Intent to beat the group-
Lament this well, because, you’ll note,
They didn’t see the dupe.
Four more newspapers followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
Believers, more, and more-
All fell into the stories deep,
And clearly screamed “Encore!”
The Spider and the Detective
Did set another round,
With which they played another game
Conveniently drowned:
And even more dark threats they gave,
Crumbs dropping on the ground.
“The time has come,” the Spider said,
“To talk of many things:
Of games - and keys - and fairy tales-
Of chess masters - and kings-
Of what the final problem is-
And whether Holmes has wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Writers cried,
“We cannot write that fast;
Your words are clear and ring with truth,
We must not let this pass!”
The Detective said “Obvious,”
His talents now harassed.
“Some chaos here,” the Spider said,
“That is my dearest aim:
Some bombs and murderers besides
The “Savior” to defame-
Now if you’re ready, Detective,
We can begin the game.”
“He can’t escape!” the Writers cried
And none ran to his aid.
“After such criminal intent,
Repayment must be made!”
The Spider grinned: unholy glee.
And he did not dissuade.
“You talk big. Naah; you’re ordinary!
And you are just like them!”
The Detective said with a Look:
“From angels I may stem:
You really should not think so much
That I am one of them!”
“It seems a shame,” the Spider said,
“To keep this up my sleeve,
After we’ve strung them all along,
And made them all believe!”
The Detective thought nothing but
‘They must be seen to grieve.’
“Staying alive,” the Spider said:
“My life is your way out.”
With wild eyes and hidden gun
Before he turned about,
Pointed the gun at his own head:
Spilled blood and startled shout.
“John. Stop there,” said the Detective,
“Just do as I ask. Good.
I researched you. It’s just a trick.
Stay there, understood?
I can’t have known it all like that—”
But John believes: “You could.”