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A Coffee Merchant was the first man to find, The corpse as he started off on his daily grind! What he saw filtered through, so he had grounds To send for the Police, to investigate what he'd found! He’d found the corpse lying by the side of a well, It didn't look too good, which was not hard to tell, For it showed no signs of life. In fact looked dead! We have a grave situation here, the undertaker said! We must lay out the facts so all can see, How to solve this man's death, shrouded in mystery. Let's uncover any secrets that might be buried, He's dead, there's no cause to be quick or hurried. First there are several litres of blood by the head. But no regular marks of shots! No lead! A young attendant said he was likely gassed, For by his pumps, earlier, he'd driven past! A gardener, wondered if he'd forked over money for "weed"? And spade work from the police, this case would need If Junkies had planted him here as they passed! Maybe they’d dug up, that the man had grassed? Next a plumber ventured the man had been plugged. Or with a piece of lead pipe, fatally slugged? And the facts were fitting, for his elbow Had been trapped in the drain below? A chisel faced carpenter, who was getting bored, Next hammered at facts and saw dust others ignored. Thought it was plain, to nail the culprit down They shouldn't rule out all footprints found. A shoemaker with a brogue stopped by at last, But quickly turned right and left again fast Showing a clean pair of heels, well polished. So the case against him was demolished! The cloth maker next, said he couldn't believe, The twisted yarns that people could weave. That they were warped and cobbled was clear, And a pattern was surely beginning to appear. The boat maker then came and put in his oar, Said it was not plain sailing, then keeling o'er Gave a sigh and collapsed on the deck! Submerged in grief, the man was a wreck! The clockmaker came next. They'd had to wait. His hands were on strike, and so he was late! He was old. He'd seen his Spring long ago. But to wind it up, this man he didn't know! A fisherman they netted, was caught on the fly. Had a terrible cast, in his one real eye! Speaking with barbed tongue, he spun a line to state His views. After weighing the facts, they rose to debate. So one after another, the artisans came through, With their own pet theories, convincing and true. Until the truth emerged later, when his wife came by, And told those gathered, how her man came to die! That he never died of natural causes is a fact. But he's only himself to blame for this dreadful act! His death came about by his continual persecution Of the English language! "It is fit retribution!" The cause of death was extreme paronomasia! For he lived in a world of literary dysphasia. After murdering language for years in fun. With alliteration and rhyming, then bad puns! His end was coming for all to see, it was clear, And although I loved my man, and held him dear, The end results of all his atrocious punning, Was a blow to his intellect! Fatally stunning! You my friends, who are gathered here today, Please remark upon what I have to say. If you make puns of the language you speak, It will leave your articulation weak! One day when epigrams flow, you're fluently witty, A repartee, or double entendre, with no pity Will coup de gras your bon mot, and end your fun! And you'll fall victim to a violent vengeful pun! Rhymer. 4th March, 2017.

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A Punny Death

A Coffee Merchant was the first man to find, The corpse as he started off on his daily grind! What he saw filtered through, so he had grounds To send for the Police, to investigate what he'd found! He’d found the corpse lying by the side of a well, It didn't look too good, which was not hard to tell, For it showed no signs of life. In fact looked dead! We have a grave situation here, the undertaker said! We must lay out the facts so all can see, How to solve this man's death, shrouded in mystery. Let's uncover any secrets that might be buried, He's dead, there's no cause to be quick or hurried. First there are several litres of blood by the head. But no regular marks of shots! No lead! A young attendant said he was likely gassed, For by his pumps, earlier, he'd driven past! A gardener, wondered if he'd forked over money for "weed"? And spade work from the police, this case would need If Junkies had planted him here as they passed! Maybe they’d dug up, that the man had grassed? Next a plumber ventured the man had been plugged. Or with a piece of lead pipe, fatally slugged? And the facts were fitting, for his elbow Had been trapped in the drain below? A chisel faced carpenter, who was getting bored, Next hammered at facts and saw dust others ignored. Thought it was plain, to nail the culprit down They shouldn't rule out all footprints found. A shoemaker with a brogue stopped by at last, But quickly turned right and left again fast Showing a clean pair of heels, well polished. So the case against him was demolished! The cloth maker next, said he couldn't believe, The twisted yarns that people could weave. That they were warped and cobbled was clear, And a pattern was surely beginning to appear. The boat maker then came and put in his oar, Said it was not plain sailing, then keeling o'er Gave a sigh and collapsed on the deck! Submerged in grief, the man was a wreck! The clockmaker came next. They'd had to wait. His hands were on strike, and so he was late! He was old. He'd seen his Spring long ago. But to wind it up, this man he didn't know! A fisherman they netted, was caught on the fly. Had a terrible cast, in his one real eye! Speaking with barbed tongue, he spun a line to state His views. After weighing the facts, they rose to debate. So one after another, the artisans came through, With their own pet theories, convincing and true. Until the truth emerged later, when his wife came by, And told those gathered, how her man came to die! That he never died of natural causes is a fact. But he's only himself to blame for this dreadful act! His death came about by his continual persecution Of the English language! "It is fit retribution!" The cause of death was extreme paronomasia! For he lived in a world of literary dysphasia. After murdering language for years in fun. With alliteration and rhyming, then bad puns! His end was coming for all to see, it was clear, And although I loved my man, and held him dear, The end results of all his atrocious punning, Was a blow to his intellect! Fatally stunning! You my friends, who are gathered here today, Please remark upon what I have to say. If you make puns of the language you speak, It will leave your articulation weak! One day when epigrams flow, you're fluently witty, A repartee, or double entendre, with no pity Will coup de gras your bon mot, and end your fun! And you'll fall victim to a violent vengeful pun! Rhymer. 4th March, 2017.

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