‘Tis trying to decide where to commence, where to begin the list of grievous flaws of Stone of Mazarin
Not all is fractured, warped Though much will verily displease The forest is abysmal; consider, though, the trees.
The person third is odd, It roams, too distant and aloof, abandons sleuth and doctor, rests with villains, sans reproof.
But bits of scene so dear! The coal is scuttled, charts upon the wall The violin, the pipes, charred bench of acid-pall.
Who is this Billy-page, who by our hero bides? Our sleuth is carved to fit only a Watson by his sides! Who is this satellite, orbiting our Saturn, who doesn’t know the tales of old but knows his sleeping pattern? Who is this timeless lad, without whom Holmes can’t do, when murder is announced, who is he, who, who, who? And why is Watson out, Not is, but was, has been? As if he’s worth much less than bubbly gasogene! And why’s our Boswell sent upon an errand low to pass a note, and why, in heavens, does he agree to go?!
Yet jewels glitter in the slag; choice veins await the mines. The ore may lack in light, but shine these precious lines: The rest of me is a mere appendix. This man has come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine. Consider the furniture!
Clever words, but commonplace the uninspired nature of each face: a villain dark, a sidekick slow a Lord who needs a thrashing. A cursed gem, a waxhead Holmes, old props get a rehashing from better tales of yore, reveal their clumsy mashing.
Old sleight of hand meets modern ruse And our rogues are oddly docile. They leave in ‘cuffs, give Holmes their best, without so much a jostle.
But Holmes’s best trick of all? Old lady with baggy parasol! Concludes the tale as many do with dinner ordered just for two.
Just for two? But who? But who? A finale most uncertain. Minds wander and they ponder the falling Mazarin curtain.
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timeasmymeasure
Enuig
Date: 2017-06-18 02:22 pm (UTC)where to commence, where to begin
the list of grievous flaws
of Stone of Mazarin
Not all is fractured, warped
Though much will verily displease
The forest is abysmal;
consider, though, the trees.
The person third is odd,
It roams, too distant and aloof,
abandons sleuth and doctor, rests
with villains, sans reproof.
But bits of scene so dear!
The coal is scuttled, charts upon the wall
The violin, the pipes,
charred bench of acid-pall.
Who is this Billy-page,
who by our hero bides?
Our sleuth is carved to fit
only a Watson by his sides!
Who is this satellite,
orbiting our Saturn,
who doesn’t know the tales of old
but knows his sleeping pattern?
Who is this timeless lad,
without whom Holmes can’t do,
when murder is announced,
who is he, who, who, who?
And why is Watson out,
Not is, but was, has been?
As if he’s worth much less
than bubbly gasogene!
And why’s our Boswell sent
upon an errand low
to pass a note, and why, in heavens,
does he agree to go?!
Yet jewels glitter in the slag;
choice veins await the mines.
The ore may lack in light,
but shine these precious lines:
The rest of me is a mere appendix.
This man has come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine.
Consider the furniture!
Clever words, but commonplace
the uninspired nature of each face:
a villain dark, a sidekick slow
a Lord who needs a thrashing.
A cursed gem, a waxhead Holmes,
old props get a rehashing
from better tales of yore,
reveal their clumsy mashing.
Old sleight of hand meets modern ruse
And our rogues are oddly docile.
They leave in ‘cuffs, give Holmes
their best, without so much a jostle.
But Holmes’s best trick of all?
Old lady with baggy parasol!
Concludes the tale as many do
with dinner ordered just for two.
Just for two?
But who? But who?
A finale most uncertain.
Minds wander and they ponder
the falling Mazarin curtain.