An Exercise In Bad Taste. 

A rich perfume doth rend the air,
 a redolent odour of burnt-out car;
  and hark! The eldritch siren songs
   in tritones echo from afar.

And as their sweet and searing voice
 resounds I eat my mackerel,
  wondering why the big fish
   go running after small fish,
    and risk a lot of smoked fish
     when they catch their evening snackerel.