it's a crude doggy-dog-world out there, where no one wants to pay,
And for all intensive purposes you've got to shut your eyes
not to see some take for granite what's a blessing in the skies.
It was in the deadened winter, windshield factor 23,
I was watching Laura Norder, paper view on the TV,
In lame man's turns, the vic was in a bread and breakfast place,
she was found lack toast and tolerant, and lying on her face.
Cops went looking through the chester drawers to find some D and A,
but her undies were beyond approach with just a little fray,
And the true flaw in the ointment, what got everyone annoyed
was a treasure cove of evidence that somehow got destroyed.
Rumor spread like wildflowers that someone dropped the ball,
there were bootprints in the snow outside and leading down the hall,
With no crime scene pics to prove it, take it with a grain assault,
though no film was in the camera, each one swore it's not my fault.
No excape goat to be sacrificed made some star-craving mad,
and to each's own, their lips were steeled, cops knew that they'd been had,
When a sweet short-sided neighbor took her dog out for a walk
and a wheel barrel of trouble came while backs were turned to talk.
Big ole Rover got his haunches up when he first spied that cat,
and he chased it through the hallway where the suspect's prints were at,
In a last stitch try to catch Miss Priss, he plotted through the snow,
in a short spurt of the moment, no bootprints were left to show.
It'd be the bud of D.A.'s jokes if they could guess at Who,
but when there's no perp to bare the blunt, it's sure not trite and true,
Like a large bowl in a china shop, you have to come to turns,
'cause when no one buys the bullet, then it's everyone that burns!