It's A Killer.

The perfumer's the first
The nose, Le Nez
Little seen
And little says
The perfumer while he works
A flash of rose
A simple scent
Lavender oils and then you're spent
Paralyzed in perfumed bliss
That's when he lays the final deadly
Kiss, of death you look
But you smell quite lovely there on the ground

We come to the chef
La Cuisinière
But only death will you find there
At the bottom of a bowl of broth
Collapsing on the tablecloth
She concocts such beauty on your tongue
Down the gullet
No more hope to run
Make no mistake: she will cook your last meal
She's a simpler one when it comes to murder
Some parsley here, some poison there
Not complex, but the best dishes never are

Le Musicien's a deadly thing indeed
He has no want, or even need
Of objects, instruments and such
He can just sing right into
Your waiting ear
(Though he does like the feel of a good woodwind)
Piping, singing
Playing his song
His macabre dance
The death waltz
That just begs to you "Come along, come along!"
A darker secret holds this one
He's never learnt a piece beyond
The first movement
He's led you over a cliff by then
With his siren-esque and lovely song

Next for danger
Is the whore
Pleasant to the touch
And she doesn't ask much
La Putain, while vulgar
Is her choice
She charms with that rather sultry voice
But it's her skin that really gets to you
Velvet
Silk
Satin
Angel wings envelop her
They unfold when her libido stirs
Down the hall into the boudoir
Locked in sweet agony is when she chooses
To do away with the desperate losers
A bite, a bite, a bite and then
You'll breathe your last in her love den

Le Peintre, he's a little tricky
Spans the forms of 'the arts' as they're called
Sculpts and acts and all that jazz
But you really have to look out
For his painting
Demonstrating a mastery of brush
And technicolour
What a rush!
It's invigorating to simply stare
At one of his portraits
And you will stare
If you had the mind to you could stare for days
In an impressionism-addled haze
Lost in every nook, details
Are more satisfying to those who look
And the painter, what of him?
While you look, inspect, admire
The painter starts a little fire
And from your ashes he creates
His newest (best yet) set of paints

Deadliest of all
The most dangerous of the six
Is Le Poète
The five before do what they can
With a single sense
With a single
Angle
But the poet
He aims straight for your mind
Not even needing to kill you himself
He gives you words
And these words help
You along the path to suicide
Hidden in the words, inside
Each stanza, every piece of verse
He's placed bewitchment
In short: a curse
Of his own design
The curse rears up, and out of the verse
And into your mind
Torment
Eternal anguish, and then
You run to the river
To drown the words
Drown them out
Terrible, beautiful
He'll show you fear
In dust and smoke
And rend your abstract thought in two
Like the opium on which he tokes
The poets verse
It will choke
And the water fills your lungs
The poet smiles a little
Thinking only
"There's a poem in that, I'm sure of it"
But you won't be alive to enjoy or suffer it