(©Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan)

One day I found myself wondering what kind of mystery might succeed in baffling the infallible resident of 221b Baker Street. The solution was surprisingly simple.

The fog is down on London town.
Street-lamps cast a glow on the tenements of Cheapside
and the cobbles of Soho.
Piccadilly is deserted, the last revellers have gone.
At Westminster Big Ben is striking one.

But Doctor Watson’s nervous.  He’s sitting up in bed,
with a candle on the dresser and a night-cap on his head,
and, dash it all, he’s worried by the recent sudden change
in the character of Holmes.  It’s very strange.

The celebrated Sherlock Holmes, who resides in Baker Street.
As perfect an English gentleman as you could ever hope to meet.
Always calm, detatched and casual.  Never gauche or unrefined.
But lately, something’s preying on his mind.

He’s grown touchy and emotional.  
Sometimes he even cries!
He often goes out on his own,
saying he needs to be alone,
he never shaves, and his nails have grown
as black as the rings beneath his eyes.
The ‘meerschaum’ lies unlighted.
His face is drawn and thin.
And nowadays he never plays upon his violin.

It’s a devil of a business!
And the trouble first began when a lady came to Baker Street,
with a parasol and fan; and most unlikely story
concerning ‘legacies’ and ‘jewels.’
As if she took them both for a pair of fools!

Now the fact that she was beautiful no-one could possibly deny.
But she had an air of mystery about her, and a strange look in her eye.
But what confounded Watson, though it might sound quite absurd,
was the fact that Holmes appeared to trust her every word!

He hung upon each syllable and uttered not a sound,
and if the lady chanced to look at him he just stared at the ground!
And when she offered him her card he was so flustering and keen,
it might just as well have been a private invitation from the Queen!

He walked her to the doorway,
then he followed her out into the street.
He called a cab and he helped her in,
came back and drank a generous quantity of gin,
threw his deer-stalker hat into the waste-paper bin,
and when dinner was served he would not eat!
He couldn’t pull himself together,
he said he didn’t know what was wrong,
so Watson thought, “Well, he’s a stirling sort.
I daresay that it won’t last long. Whatever it is!”

It’s a vexing situation.  Enough to make you wince!
It’s left him quite distracted, and he’s been like that ever since!
Now Doctor Watson’s seriously worried.
After all, he might be gravely ill.
It’s a mystery.  And it remains a mystery still.

And Moriarty must be chuckling to think, at last, that he might win;

with Sherlock Holmes as dumbstruck as his famous violin.