by Hugh Barlow


I, an Afghan Wars veteran.

He, a Baker Street orphan,

Was in need of a sturdy safe haven.

I, a disabled doctor,

Gave him a home and a proctor.

Without me, the lad come a cropper.

He, an irregular chap,

Was known for his hat with a flap,

Had fleet feet and a very strong back.

He turned our adventures about,

As I took him along on my route,

And made me to look like a lout.

He cast me as his secretary.

He simply was my functionary.

His stories were premonitory.

Tobacco, not alone in his pipe.

Morphine and cocaine were his vice.

His downfall; a bout on the heights.

To him, a fault was a virtue.

To instill in him ethics anew,

Was an endeavor I tried to pursue.

With his statements find fault,

Take his prattle with salt.

Take the cellar withal.

He was bright, but deceptive.

I was true and perceptive.

I was ever the better detective.

Elementary, my dear chap:

He distorted the facts.

It was I in the lead, not the sap.