Murderer In The Tea Cup

There he stood, in the fold,
Waiting, waiting as the hour grew old.
Until a nightingale began to tale its tale.
Then he stooped behind a bush,
Parting its branches with a push.
And the nightingale did talk and talk,
Until it flew to a corn stalk.
Though this did not give him away,
He waited, waited until night turned to day.
Then in the distance a figure approached,
Short in green tunic and black and silver broach.
Off of his horse which he did ride,
Into the house he quickly did stride.
From out of the bush to beneath the window,
He peaked in and saw the tonic's black glow.
The man in the house threw off his coat,
Pulled out from the draw, pen, paper, and wrote note.
Then he reached for that chalice,
Soon, soon to taste my malice.
He saw him lift that cup,
And take small small sups.
Soon would come a feeling so abrupt.
Tick tock went the clock,
Then came the effects of hemlock.
He went to lie down,
But only made bed on the ground.
He walked into his house and stood,
Taking off cloak and hood.
"Help, help me!" he did plea,
But his soul soon did bleed.
He buried the man below the hill,
Next to the old windmill.

Reviews

[None]

I don't know why, but this reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe, with a touch of Sherlock Holmes.