A January morning quite plainly arose
He saw in the street a French boy blow his nose
To skip school for illness, the garçon now chose
His mother insisted: "C'est pas grande chose!"

He smiled as he rode by, not envying the kid
Who was a schoolday away from closing his lid
He had this job to finish and once he did
To driving for money, farewell he would bid

It was his last task to deliver spices
Ground up and packed by various devices
He'd worked for years at affordable prices
And now, at long last, his budget suffices

He'd saved up his wages to go on a trip
For him and his brother he'd booked a sailship
They'd cruise the Gibraltar and eat salsa dip
On the Côte d'Azur they'd pretend to be hip

The turn of events which followed is blurry
Daydreaming numbed his caution, so he hurried
A sudden impact made him stop and worry
And these are the last words he said to the jury:

"The trunk door, it opened when I hit the break
The spices flew out, what a mess it did make
As I looked down, I felt my very core shake
The scene was a nightmare from which I never wake

The smell of basil and parsley slowly spread
As on the curb an old man to his death bled
A branch of rosemary landed on his head
my brother took a sniff then shut his eyes, dead."