Why can't the vicar?

Why can't the vicar on the scene 
of crime quit potting about with 
the cordials? Shoving tinkling glasses
of sherry and port to starboard and left 
- like that! Like a zephyrous squall, 
blown away by a pleasantry.  

Just so. Vanished poof. 

These delicious drinks, though. Hints 
of color and notes of toxins distinct! 
As we heel over drowsy and woozy 
and lose, our consciousness dawns 
on a new theory, in inky dark mauve
scrawled desperately dim,
and presently gone 
like a nasty hymn. 

We remain
unconvinced and aloof, 
looking grim and wan
just a bit off our game, 
this time. Growing pale 
as a fact quite cold. Sterile.

Nothing more to pursue. 
I expect we'll eventually 
quit this line.