A sickly sweet century,
of slickness, and treachery.
Ita the smell of doom,
of baseless attitude and gloom.
Ita all too familiar,
and a little bit chilling,
Ita the stench of Her perfume,
and all too fulfilling.
Ita the smell of mystery,
The smell of a witch,
The smell of a criminal,
The smell of a *****.


Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 10th of Midsummer, in the year 502 MA.