From Case Files Dark as Night

 
 
To start off with, po’et Paul Ruddy,    
Who wrote all his dark po’ems bloody:    
Took a penknife in hand    
And went straight for the gland—    
A curious writer to study.    
     
The next in my files, name of Bobby,    
He murdered his prose as a hobby:    
Slit each plot in the neck,    
Ev’ry one hit the deck,    
Never knew where he hid the body.    
     
I’ll skip to the writer Saul Biddy,    
Was born and had died in the city:    
Homicide he would write,    
Lots of killing in spite      
Was murdered himself, what a pity.    
     
Here’s a file I’d forgotten by chance,    
Milly Saber, Poetess of Dance:    
With her nose out of joint,      
She’d still do it on point,    
Rival lovers she’d neatly dispatch.    
     
Now, the file of a Bethany Hope,    
That her readers considered like dope:    
Overdosing on meth    
From the po’ems of Beth,    
They were fatally drawn to her trope.  
 
At last we have Bill nicknamed Foureyes,  
It’s his claim he wrote “Lord of the Flies”.  
 Local boys don’t come near,  
They know he smells their fear,  
And might end up his next Shepherd’s Pie.  
     
It’s time I go home for my dinner,  
I’m the only one the breadwinner.    
There’s leftover stir-fry,    
For a taste you would die    
The fate of a lottery winner.