“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.
