The usual patrons were gathered
Down at the Prancing Horse.
The usual libations were proffered
I was drinking my lager, of course.


“Have you heard about Bernie McGill?”
My drinking buddy asked of me.
“He was found dead, down by the mill
That was the day before yesterday.”


“Both arms broken, his throat slit,
His head bashed in by a brick.
No one liked him, not even a bit,
But the violence was rather sick.”


“Well, Joe, as you know I’m the coroner.
And soon I’ll have to decide.
If we can’t blame a suitable foreigner,
Then I’ll have to rule it a suicide.”