“So what you’re saying, Whitehall, is: you’ve nothin’.
No leads, no suspects – all that work for naught!
That boatman seems, at best, a crude macguffin –
you must not rest until this killer’s caught!”
The Mayor is apoplectic, dressing down
and chewing out the poor Inspector Helen:
“Election’s in two months, you know! This town
will hang me if you can’t arrest this felon!”
This ain’t why I became a politician,
he mumbles later, shooting up his fix;
I thought it would be fêtes, and trade commissions –
posh balls and banquets and, let’s face it, chicks!
But now, with some mad psycho on the loose,
his chain of office feels just like a noose.