Some mysteries are for London to keep

I am the skeleton

Of your wishes and demand

Though the Game is back on

You'll never force their hand.


"What's the truth?" you holler, poor fans of the man.

"Maybe it was like this? Maybe it was so?

Please please tell us, we really must know!

How did he do it?" As loud as you can.


Of course they will show you the reunion of friends

— Great moments of comedy, drama and blues.

They will even give you fresh ideas and clues

But eventually they will only be dead ends.


So you want an explanation? Be ready to pout.

Oh, they'll give you new viewpoints, enlighten you — and lie.

How reliable is Anderson? How believable was I?

It doesn't take a genius to figure this out.


"Oh no, we didn't cheat", they'll smirk in your face,

"The elements were all out there to see."

Well, so they were too in my age-old case

— Still unsolved and that's how it ever shall be.


The same Victorian roads we both have known,

The great Sherlock Holmes and me.

He's still solving crimes out there and I'm still unknown

And that's how it ever shall be.


I'm repeating myself — forgive me, I'm old.

There's only one more thing for you to be told.


Despite the frustration that not knowing it gives

The only thing you really need to know is this.

When nothing else remains, this alone is a bliss:

Jack the Ripper is long gone but Sherlock Lives.


But what happened there, really? Only the initiated will know.

Luckily there are so many ways all the theories can go.


"So you want the truth, don't you?

Well, it isn't ours to sell.

Go and deduce it, won't you?

Because we will never tell."


So forever you'll wonder, forever you'll weep:

"How did Sherlock do it? Who was Jack, really?"

Let the dust settle and the hype go by, for clearly:

Some mysteries and secrets are for London to keep.