There lived a man in 18th century France

Gifted and abominable, in an era, he pranced

And although he has long been forgotten today
Misanthropy, arrogance, WICKEDNESS per say
He did not fall short of, but rather, excelled and restricted himself
In a domain that leaves no traces in history: Scent itself.

Here, then, on the most putrid spot in the whole kingdom,
Amidst tumult and turmoil, he lay there stubborn.
There! What's that? A bastard. He doesn't smell at all!
Child of the Devil! Begone with you. You shouldn't be left to live at all!
And whisked away from his "mother" he had so horribly condemned,
The little child's instinctive cry was stemmed.

Stubborn, sullen and loathsome,
Small lonely and gruesome,
Grenouille the ugly tick vegetated,
In perpetual hibernation he lay clotted,
Scratching, boring and biting at flesh and blood spotted.

With a sense of smell having no equal and a power to discern odors,
Grenouille was on the hunt for everything the world could offer: beauties and horrors.
He devoured everything, sucking it up into him,
Building an olfactory kitchen in his imagination.
Like a child playing blocks or a poet making a hymn,
He would forever fashion and destroy a new combination.

Wherever he worked, wherever he went,
The bastard was a paragon of docility and diligence.
He meekly obeyed to every extent,
And survived the mirthless laugh of life with silence.

And then, it came: a scent, an extraordinary scent,
A blend of both evanescence and substance.
With it came Shock...Greed...Agony
But most of all, a terrible want to ensnare it totally.
A virgin slicing plums it turned out to be,
And with her dying flame, rest at last came speedily.

Oh! With the master scent of the red-headed girl, He
Grenouille aspired to a higher goal and destiny.
The compass had been set with a crime,
Finally, he could become the greatest perfumer of his time.

Soon after, Grenouille sets out to be apprenticed to Baldini.
His pockmarked face, his bulbous nose are no help at all,
For even if he does strike pity,
The legendary perfumer can't help but be appalled.

Yet odors have a power of persuasion stronger than that of words
It enters into us like a breath, and cannot be fended off,
Just like wine and drinks affect drunkards,
So can't odors be shaken off.

Slowly, but with great progress, it came to be.
The gnome learned the language of perfumery.
Not a scent in the world he could not reproduce,
So long as the scent he would use,
Be solely of organic origin and nature.

When it finally became clear that he had failed to make
A scent out of an inanimate substance,
He was shaken to the core, twas like an earthquake
So mighty, he couldn't help but be taken off balance,
And fall into Hades' realm he almost did.

With just a couple hours left to live,
And pustules covering him from head to toe,
Did the master perfumer become talkative,
"Enfleurage a froid ou chaud" he finally bestowed.

Like a brasier comes roaring alive when stoked,
So did Grenouille come back from the dead,
Dormant and lifeless he had lain, but now when poked,
Had woken up with one intent: to soar true to his goal just like an arrowhead.

Seven days may pass, Seven years may trickle,
Yet Grenouille the Great will always fight for survival
An empire may be built and it may be trampled,
Yet Grenouille the Great will never back down,
Maceration he will have mastered.

And so the quest continues a couple years later,
With it comes the unpredictable scent of a new "flower"
That he must mix with twenty-four inferior scents to create
The ultimate perfume that will dominate.

Death strikes. Flames are snuffed. Hair falls. Panic everywhere.
Virgin by virgin, THE perfume becomes more and more extraordinaire.
And not until the cherry of them all is finally added to the oeuvre
Does the almighty Grenouille complete his chef-d'oeuvre.

With his goal completed, comes immense lassitude,
Life for the murderer becomes tasteless and unbearable,
And only with a death, a violent death, a death so terrible,
Can the heinous life of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille conclude.

THE END