A sonnet to a scent.

A taste for pretty flowers have I none;
Even a gardenful would leave me cold.
Hesperides and herbs for some are gold,
But I confess in “fresh” I find no fun.

In this, a world where one’s dessert is worn
Upon one’s wrists, and commerce fills the nose
With stink of pepper pink (call it “baie rose”
If spice with nicer names you would adorn)

Give me civet, musk, and richest indole,
Ambergris and honey, hyraceum,
Labdanum and costus, castoreum,
An animalic balm to soothe my soul–

And thus anointed, let me kneel and thank
The gods and goddesses who gave us skank.