“Murder in the Bookshop”

“Murder in the Bookshop.

(aka “Murder!” she cried.)

It was Eleven fifty-five

on a cold, wet Monday;

when brollies did thrive.

It wasn’t a Sun day

when I walked through the door,

and headed for an aisle;

tripped over the body of work

that Catherine Cookson did while

away her hours in writing the text;

and, upon altering direction,

I arrived at the scene of the crime-fiction section.

“Next!” I proclaimed as I took up a book,

an Agatha Christie? “No!”

By hook or by crook

who has taken the fiction

of Hercule and Jane?

I took a Sci-fi novel instead,

and will have to return

to the scene of the crime-fiction section

once more, once again.

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