The poet stinks.
He rhymes with cheeses
Old and far too ripe
To bear the gentle fragrance
That wafts, so tantalizing
Beneath his eager nose.
The taste is there,
His soul devours
Yet puts to rank words
The scent, which charmed and bound him
Heart and soul. His putrid pen
Scribes odor, not aroma.
Curdled ink betrays him.