When, like the whiskers of a mouse in love,
Trembling, I rush to read what happens next,
And wading through the tangled plot, perplexed,
I worry lest the hero not remove
His bonds in time, I fight against the text,
Then do I wish that I could write my own
Detective stories. Reading them alone,
Now baffled, harried, anxious, vexed
Until the denouement, then do I groan
And cry aloud, "I knew it all along!"
Marsh, Sayers, Christie sing their siren song,
And we addicted readers make our moan:

Ah, sweet love of mystery we cherish!
We must have mystery -- else we perish.



© Kevin Berland, 1999


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