Plumberbt2

One Two Fumbling
Three Four Grenadier explosives
Five Six Too big a blob, get down!
Seven Eight Guarded with explosive powder
Nine Ten He will pass away - hopefully.

One Two Bacon and egg - the smell of bacon really.
Three Four I wish I had a beer now - my throat is scratchy.
Five Six Now a cool blob.
Seven Eight Even Pierre Bourdon laughs at the order and the look of the bottle.
Nine Ten It will blow away - should be performed in a castle with stone cannons and damsels with plates of bacon.

... always popular, needs no words.
Beautiful bowls, öligherb.
Right in the middle of the action.
Orange sun under sunflowers in a sundae with lemon fluff.
All right!

-Mirrored-

That's all right!
Don't worry,
tart flower,
a little wood,
always back
to the peel
of the lime.

Oils Oils

Vanilla honey. with a light floral note (much lower case here because it is so subtle). creamy white-violet. very dense, fine, closed. Now it closes, withdraws.
Could really be a piece of yellow-white paper of the good-natured vanilla variety. A faint hint or two of herbs also emerge. Where is the sharpness of the paper - have you ever cut it? A herbal milk drink. Still the blossom in the background, I smell violets. Maybe to spray on the paper. Oh, now the great oldness of the paper comes out, so yellow, old newspapers pile up timelessly in an apartment without blinds, in the long interplay with the incident sunlight, the paper has worked, rebuilt itself. The character of the newspapers: no horror stories or political slander. Small-town news with a milky character. The only spicy thing is the occasional bankruptcy of local businesses. Opposite the little room through the window, a man comes by with a fat milkshake. You smell vanilla again. You nod off. You push aside a cardboard box and look at a still life, and smell it too, from a root, vital, which has found its way into the room, a vanilla biscuit from last Christmas and a glass of milk. That's what I had made for myself. I wanted to work on my case. Instead ... Time passes. I'm not in the room for a long time. It smells more pungent. Time grinds the paper in a woody way. This woody paper becomes spicy. Approaches the croissant. Christmas is just around the corner (again). The milk has solidified, soured milk. The paper has disintegrated into spice. Wait - does the smell of a letter linger? Most likely an R-e-i-s. Rest gently in a diptych of vanilla milk and white grains. I add a few grains of spice to the tombstone.

Fragrance description from start to finish: Lemon fireworks. Darkly invigorating. Short cough through white polish; herbaceous motor starts, powder obstructs. White cream on arm, curb smell, too sweet.
Chewing gum, chewed through.

Another perfume "taken" from the book Ghost Parfumer is attributed to Pierre Bourdon.

Hello, I am the final boss.
Fragrance notes: All.
Tart, sour, furry-in-the-neck feelings. Take my love.

I give you peaches from Morocco, I have bathed them in the same roses, I have rubbed orange blossoms on them. And a chamomile tea from Grandma. You can take it.
Here come the spices: Let the caraway warm you up; I'll bathe you in cloves; you'll go limp - let the cinnamon pick you up again.
The club blows: Wooden cudgel from the sack - I'll blow love into you. Are you still not choking on the rose? Vanilla is fine too, and iris; let the musk winds blow. Patchouli! (goodbye to us) - You've spent a night in the castle without fear.