Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 121, No. 2. Whole No. 738, February 2003

Clouds scudding past a crescent moon, the moor miasma-bound,

Your blood turns icy as you hear the baying of a hound.

Your sins are all remembered, those dark deeds that you did,

That tuppence brazenly purloined when you were but a kid.

That promise that you uttered and so speedily forgot,

The copybook you ruined with that unsightly blot.

You cursed, sir, and you cheated; you coveted a wife,

You’re having second thoughts now so near to end of life.

You treated servants rudely and paid them badly, too,

But too late for atonement — the hound has come for you.

You never asked but ordered and in a tone so shrill,

And no one could oppose you, my dear Baskerville.

Sharp fangs will shred your flesh, sir, your screams will fill the night,

He’ll do you quickly, doubtless, but he will do you right.

The beast is near approaching — yes, kneel down in the grass,

Fat lot of good ’twill do you for Heaven is turned to brass.

Egads, must be your lucky day! ’Tis not the dreaded hound,

But merely closest neighbor from village homeward-bound.

Yes, best you thank the Lord above that you’ve been spared the muzzle,

’Tis the vicar, Thomas Fenton, out walking his Jack Russell.