In some far-flung future,
Immortal and beloved exsanguinator of crime
Sherlock Holmes! Assisted by his unimaginable
mechanical devices, stalks languidly,
relentlessly on the scent, now and then
mourning the absence of his prodigiously
bated rapier foil, the good doctor, loyal
and constant companion, late
and lamented these many years.
For reflections like these,
We have no time.
Holmes, bent on the job already,
locked in a neverending battle against
his unyielding foe: boredom, and idleness
contemplating the courses of coquettishly
unsolved cases of crime. Bouncing sigma
beams at transponder dots, he traces arrays
of A.I. algorithms replicating all the
innermost thoughts
of all history's worst
most predictable criminal minds,
to contend with them. "Moriarty,"
he sang at the hologram, in a peevish
and discontented tone. "Is it me,
or are things too much
the same as they've always been?"
Sat back, and awaiting response,
he already knows will be sullen
silence, drawn out and broken
eventually
by sepulchral groan.
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