So you poke around dead bodies?

The body isn't even the half of it

It's a crime, it's a picture

It's a story

 

They call it a motive

Well I call it the narrative

The writing of a screenplay

And it's so imperative

 

It's the stage

It's the scene

Whether gory or clean

It's the curtain call

Of the crime scene

 

Every instrument I use 

All that I garner from my clues

Are an instrument of art

Already perfectly mixed hues

 

With each is stroke is a date

The splatter a time

The blood cannot wait

It's time for the entrance

Of the orchestrator of the crime

 

They call forth a suspect

I call forth my finds

They watch me like an insect

But before them the plan unwinds

 

Guilty! On what ground?

His blood sullies the victim we found!

He's insane! That can't be true!

Insanity is a loophole to you!

 

I'll have order in my court

You're both out of hand

Now what say the jury 

Before its you two I reprimand

 

A beat is missed as they shuffle and wait

Taking time to absorb and to contemplate

The evidence still stares them in the face

I have already sealed their fate

 

We find the defendant guilty upon all accounts

The evidence has spoken, to such a great amount

The case is closed, a chapter sealed

Now tell me dead bodies can't scream or shout