On my recent visit to London, I met Sherlock Holmes
I insisted he has the pleasure of listening to my poems
He said he wasn’t interested because he was a detective
I argued it will make his somber mood festive.
Midway through my recital, I found he had slept
Pity he was so poetically deaf, of all joy bereft.
What is a man’s life without any poetry and love?
Because both go together like hand in a glove.
Mister detective was engrossed in solving a murder case
I couldn’t take my eyes off the funny moustache on his face
He got up and hugged me, just out of the blue
I think my brilliant poem, gave him an important clue.
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