A poem about the famus and one of my faveret adventures of the grate detective.
Image by Jeppestown via Flickr
The speckled Band it bit its masters hand.
The master not the serpents spirit is damned.
The games afoot he cried.
The true in the mystery he spied.
A bed, bell rope, chair, grate, milk, lead and a safe were the only clews.
No one cold understand the crime but amongst Detectives Sherlock Homes rules.
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