The Murder Club
Under the arching roof of stone that mocked the broader sky,
the crows with eyes of bone decreed the bulldog pup must die!
Three birds were there, the murder crew, the wallowers in gore,
they took a dreadful bloody oath that he should live no more.
"I hate his jowls," the first had said, "his weskit," sneered the second.
"His hat is poor," the third did caw, and thus his fate was reckoned.
But he slept sound on hallowed ground, no murders feared he,
for he was Doctor Watson's dog at Number Two Two One Bee.
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