He was found floating facedown in a pool of swamp scum.
They couldn't tell who he was or where he was from.
A note tied to his back, said, he shouldn't have talked.
The first thing cops thought was, a Clinton was mocked.
His body was bloated, stretched to the limit,  ready to blow.
One more unsolvable crime, no victim ID, nothing to show.
The cops weren't at all anxious, to drag it to the shore.
They shot it, it blew up and was seen nevermore.
The next day another body was found burned on the beach.
This one was a young woman, the area smelled of bleach.
They thought, bleach doesn't burn, what's the connection.
They called in their Sherlock Holmes for top rate detection.
After inspecting the body, topdown, over and under.
Sherlock concluded the killers had made a big blunder.
He said the young lady had been wiped down with bleach bit.
 You mean like with a rag, someone said, he was a big hit.
Watch out someone warned him, you could be next.
Just for implicating the Clintons, you could be hexed.
He said, for laughing at my joke, you too could be killed.
That made them all think and their titters were stilled.
 Next morning their squadroom went up in a great ball of fire.
It served double purpose as the squads funeral pyre.
No one saw anything, not a single clue was discovered.
It went down as an accident and the Clinton's were covered.
Just for writing this poem, I may have sealed my fate.
I may die in a mysterious way at some later date.
Even though this is total fiction, I had best be aware.
There must be a reason these rumors are floating out there.
D.L. Crockett -- 3/26/23