Madam, Your Perfume Reeks of Rimbaud References

Madam, surely your olfactory senses
have gone the way of the Dodo bird
The patrons of the cafe have all fled
Those who could still move, that is
A man in a wet suit set himself on fire,
leaped out of a window into heavy traffic,
shouting:
"Merde!"
all the way down

Madam, your perfume reeks of Rimbaud
references and all their implied debauchery
There will be no orphan's New Year now
No sailing down the Seine on the drunken boat
The barista has brutally blinded herself,
so as not to prolong this season in Hell,
shouting:
"Merde!"
as she did the deed

Madam, how is your hair not soaking
from dousing it with a gallon of perfume?
Did you blow-dry it after the flood?
Outside, the hanged men dance upon
swaying branches eagerly sought for reprieve
Suicides plunge from the highest tower,
shouting:
"Merde!"
all the way down

Madam, upon turning a pruned sixty,
did your illuminations then fade bitterly?
Bad blood informs your witches brew
Poorly-aged wine cannot obliterate
this repugnant odor from my vessel
Like Rimbaud, you must have peaked at 21,
whispering:
"Merde..."
at the welcoming spectre of Death