He wasn’t at all athletic
Our Detective Sven by name
But neither was he arthritic
In the way he pursued his game.
He gamboled across the botanical gardens
Where the ambassador had been dug up
For clues to the source of the poisons
Administered in a monogrammed teacup.
“I surmise,” I said with my usual perspicacity,
“That while discussing a sensitive document
A foreign agent perpetrated this teatime atrocity
Poisoning our ambassador for his government.”
“There’s no evidence,” Sven replied, “of your theory.
It’s apparent he expected to be treated regally
As festooned with regalia most handsomely
He came without fear for his safety.”
“I find it ironic,” said the ambassador’s aide
“That my lately deceased but circumspect superior
Was unearthed under tea roses he’d have expended
Considerable effort to never go near!”
“Odd,” I shrugged. “Allergies?” Sven inquired,
And the sorrowful aide nodded in agreement.
“This explains the countless hankies he’d employed
But hidden suspiciously far from his interment.”
All at once Sven sprang to attention:
“Why the clue’s been right under our noses!
One suspect we’ve failed to mention
Has an abnormal love of tea roses!”
“Not the director of the gardens,” I cried
“Why he said he was at home with his wife!”
“Hold on to your toupée! It’s clear that he lied
To hide a grudge that cost the ambassado’s life.”
We listened as Sven the mystery unraveled
How lured by a purported royal summons
With sneezing the diplomat became afflicted
Before choking on a cocktail of poisons.
The director, this foul fanatical botanist,
Hated the ambassador for his allergy
Which prevented the Queen’s official visit
And his roses of their favor from royalty.
Now pondering the case of the homicidal maniac
Currently frothing in the confines of a sanatorium
I wonder if I’m not more than a little psychotic
For chronicling Sven’s triumphs ad nauseam!