Me, and the book, and the cigarette
(And the coffe, of course, black and strong),
Sit under the light in the cool clear night,
While the traffic hums by like a song.
The book is a mystery, with a plot and clues,
And I pause from reading to think a bit
And zero in on that fake alibi.
I’ve got my man, at least I think he’s it—
But on the next page he’s shot goodbye.
Ah, the red herring— I saw it too late!
But she (Oh no!) Could it be her?
But no! She’s in danger! Where is that ‘tec?
Will he be in time with his mind a-whirr?
I look about and the city’s still here.
New and fresh and everything’s clear.
We’ll save her yet, the detective and I,
And the good of the world and all its cheer.
The book is done and I’m satisfied;
Courage and logic have conquered wrong.
I draw in the smoke and blow it free,
And the coffee’s cold, but hard and strong.