Which lay on a carpet plain.
Who killed him? How?
What should we do now?
Let's throw him into the rain.
Was it Plum, the professor from WHO,
Who did things a doc shouldn't do?
His romantic whirl,
Now a telegram girl,
Is lying out there by dog poo.
Colonel Mustard the killer could be.
He stole parts from the flying army.
That negative diver
Who whacked off his driver,
Should really have settled for tea.
Was he killed by the weapon of Scarlet's
Who ran a hot brothel of harlots?
When the cop came to call,
Did she murder them all?
Because she got gypped at the car lots?
Was it Wadsworth, the man who just buttled?
Like a penguin through hallways he scuttled.
He shouted. He shouted.
And then got knock-outed.
The deceased cook later he cuddled.
Mrs. Peacock a senator wed.
So her morals are basically dead.
Wait, is she a man?
From silence she ran.
On monkey's brain she gladly fed.
Was it Mrs. White, there in the tunic?
Who made her late husband a eunuch?
Her glare ripped apart
That little French tart.
Or did she say she's from Munich?
Arrest them all! Don't say I can't.
I'll end this crazy man's rant.
I'm wearing this suit,
Because I'm not a fruit.
I'm Green. I'm am FBI plant.
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