I press my ear towards your chestHearing the absence of your heart.Your sweet hair tangled in a bloody mess.Death by asphyxiation of a rope.
No noose, but your wrist,Indicate heavy bruises and a missing ring.Bruises from you trying to resist.Looking over the words grope
Tightly around your body in red.”Fuck you P.S. Try me?”A crime scene of dread.Maybe I’ll give you a glimmer of hope.
Witness tells me of a clubYou frequent during the off hours.Investigation some would rather snub.Back and forth, questioning some dope.
Following a trail full of dead ends.This is 1948 with only my intuition.Following leads, cruising around bendsFinally I get a break, blood soaked rope.
At the apartment of Percy Shelly.Kicking in the door, no one to find.Looking around I spot the telly Still on and the tub full with soap.
Blood smears on the tiles.Closer to ending the case.Murder weapon in hand will bring smiles To the all as I narrow the case scope.
Though what disturbs me is the letter.”Detective, you’ll never find me.The next one will even be better.”My partner looks at me, “What a sick dope.”
Not waiting for another to die.I rush to the window to see a fire ladder.Little drops of blood seemly dryLead up to the roof, I feel hope.
Spotting this little trailI see a man in anguish And in shock as begins to assail Right hook jab he falls to mope.
Handcuffed and cussing me.I eye up low to him.Feeling his sense to run and go free.”Percy Shelly, I’m charging you for the murder of Hannah Short.”