A Game Changer
A Game Changer - a poem by Hazel Goss
Jonah was the butler’s name
He worked for Doctor Black.
They devised a murder game
And invited people back.
Colonel Mustard’s wife wore red
A scarlet woman the others thought.
Professor Plum, a man well read,
brought Miss White, whose hand he sought.
Reverend Green, came with his spouse
in a peacock printed dress,
These guests arrived at Black’s large house,
Unaware of his plans to impress.
Jonah served drinks, while Black explains,
‘Clues are set in every room.
You must find what each contains,
Unearth where wicked weapons loom.
The guests dispersed to the library,
dining room, kitchen and hall,
billiard room, Doctor Black’s study,
examining floor, ceiling, wall.
Just before lunch, they reconvened,
Keeping silent, a knowing look.
‘Til Butler, Jonah, intervened,
With ashen face; his gnarled hands shook.
‘While this ‘game’ was underway,
Doctor Black’s been brutally killed.
I found his body. In the kitchen he lay.’
The guests all gasped, with horror filled.
‘How did he die? Please tell us all,’
said Reverend Green; his face showed stress.
‘Tied hand and foot to a metal stool,
stabbed, beaten, shot, a bloody mess.’
Colonel Mustard swallowed and said,
‘Called the police? If not, we should.’
‘Yes, I told them Doctor Black was dead.
They said, touch nothing, understood?’
They nodded, and resigned they sat,
Staring disconsolately,
Until Holmes came, with deerstalker hat.
He took charge consummately.
‘You all had opportunity,
But motive I’m not certain.
Please speak up with impunity
If you hid behind a curtain.
A witness would soon solve this crime,
Meanwhile I’ll interview you.’
Holmes was thorough, took his time,
The evil murderer to pursue.
Eventually he knew the truth
And called the guests together.
He was, after all, a super sleuth
Observant, diligent, clever.
‘Every person gathered here
Is guilty of Black’s demise.
He blackmailed you, creating fear.
His victims, today, did victimize.’
A rope was used to keep him still,
beaten with wrench and candlestick,
stabbed with dagger, shot, until
his blood drained from him, red and slick.
They hung their heads, deep in shame.
Their hands were cuffed behind their back.
They must all now take the blame,
For the vicious murder of Doctor Black.
Read Hazel's other poems:
