But when the forensics boys came round,
There wasn't a scrap of George to be found:
He'd just disappeared, without leaving a trace -
And no-one could quite recollect George's face.

They saw his walk sometimes, out on the beat;
Infrequently found their desks strangely neat
But George had escaped from the scene of the crime,
To tease them 'til clues had been trodden by time.

Eventually, as the years scraped by,
Inspectors made supers and wound down to die
And in their retirements they realised
That George hadn't been the crook they'd surmised.

He'd just run away to avoid his own life,
Selecting a year between wisdom and wife
To find occupation in being alone.
Think of George if it's quiet when you answer the 'phone.