Poirot Between Two Breasts

Is it a lover non pareil ?
No, methinks, it's a mother mild.
Agatha is the name of the dame,
Mystery writer of quite some fame.

Dapper, fussy even; his dress is so particular,
He may well ride on some funicular.
Between her breasts, he is at home,
But will not garden because of the loam.

The heating must be turned up high,
He will turn his nose up at pork pie.
Haute cuisine must be just that,
Not a thing out of place in his flat.

And Hastings too must tow the line,
Is this the clue we want this time ?
But it's between two breasts we see our hero,
Scoring well - not a zero.

Grey cells are where he excels,
Between two breasts the scandal quells.
I am your mother, I've given you life,
But really Poirot I'll skip the wife !