Bleeding-under-Wychwood

Oh take a break at Bleeding-under-Wychwood
Away from all the city noise and grime;
Where the harvest moon shines bright and the knocking in the night
Is the undertaker working overtime.

You can dine quite cheaply at the Pig and Whistle
On the roast beef of Olde England, rare and lean,
But I don’t advise the soup, you’ll be rolling like a hoop
For it’s liberally sprinkled with strychnine.

You’ll need this little map of Bleeding Manor
Where the villainous pursue their dread affairs;
See, all the rooms have labels from the attics to the stables
With a little matchstick body on the stairs.

The squire, Sir Murgatroyd, is old and wealthy
And recently has wed a teenage wife.
While he slumbers in his study, the poor old fuddy-duddy,
His bride is sharpening the kitchen knife.

There are footprints in the moist herbaceous border,
There are bloodstains all across the pantry floor.
Poirot’s grey cells are ticking and Miss Marple’s needles clicking
And the gun is missing from the study drawer.