Hogmanay with Pipistrella Turboshandy

Picture the scene:
the Victorian London
one sees in a dream,
all hansom cabs
and bowler hats.
Even the street urchins
are squeaky clean.

There's no dog shit
on THESE pavements.

Got it fixed in your mind's eye?
Good.


(Enter John H. Watson)

I well remember the day
Pipistrella came to stay.
We got high-high-high
on that fateful Hogmanay.

She was the plaything of an idle evening.
An escape from the dull routine of living.

221B
became a hotbed
of nefarious activity.

Mrs Hudson was out of her gourd
(the sandwiches still had their crusts on).
Stoned Sherlock (gone to cock) said
"I think this is a two-bong problem".

Willum, the hot knives and boots boy,
wide-eyed and face aglow,
chased the dragon of the Baskervilles
around the guest bedroom
while Dean Moriarty secreted himself
in the hedgerow down below,
looking for all the world
like a giant mushroom.

Pipistrella,
the devil-may-care
bohemian nightmare!

Oh! Harlot of Hades!
Mad, bad alligator,
straight from the Everglades!
Saucy satanic strumpet!
Wicked, hot buttered crumpet!

Inspector Lestrade
took it very hard.
For a week he lost his sight.
We don't speak about that night.

B.P.R 30/12/2016