When I grow up I want to be
Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
I'll say Eh, bien! and mon ami
most everywhere I go.
My brilliance well acknowledged, I'll
be confidently brash,
and when I pass a mirror, smile
and stroke my fine mustache.
When someone's evening has been marred
by poison, gun, or blade,
befuddled gents from Scotland Yard
shall run to me for aid.
I'll have no fear that I might fail;
already I've perfected
my talent. I'll just send to jail
the one who's least suspected.