Perfume traces scent the air inside the glass conservatory
  where lay the chains and cellophane and pieces of embroidery.
  Trailing vines outside the window spiral down like wayward hair
  enticing flawless butterflies whose perfume traces scent the air.

  Deep below, in catacombs, the online practising physician
  contemplates the evening news and switches off his television.
  Clipping wings from butterflies; to add some colour to the gloom,
  he fills another trophy case, deep down below in catacombs.

  Mister Smith, the perfect neighbour, always buys fresh wrapping paper
  sweeps away the wayward hair, old Mister Smith has savoir-faire.

        Chests to keep their trinkets in;
        bracelets, summer frocks and hats.
        Pulsing veins in marble skin,
        Bunsen burners melt the fat,
        Pestles grind the bones to dust,
        Test tubes fill with sediment,
        Pipettes suck the liquid up;
        Mister Smith experiments.

  Mister Smith, the perfect neighbour, always buys fresh wrapping paper,
  contemplates the evening news and switches off his TV set.
  Promises of candy bars entice the wayward butterflies,
  while voices cry out in the night, for little Susie’s not home yet.