Trigger: Psychedelic Porn Crumpets

Once in a glade, both shadowed and sweet,
Lived a reaper with terribly clumsy feet.
Her scythe was sharp, her cloak jet black,
But her memory, alas, had a fatal crack.

One sunny morn, her list blew away,
Leaving her clueless, her job in dismay.
"Was it the baker, the mayor, the mime?"
She sighed, “Guess I’ll get them… another time.”

She wandered the village, her face in a frown,
While the townsfolk whispered, “Death’s in town!”
But rather than flee or cower in dread,
They found her endearing—and gave her some bread.

The reaper, confused, forgot her grim chore,
And started to bake in the baker’s backstore.
She added some sugar, a pinch of regret,
And baked little cookies no one would forget.

Each bite was divine, but carried a cost:
One soul would vanish—poof, forever lost.
Soon the village was empty, silent as night,
But her cookies won ribbons for their “ethereal bite.”

So now she bakes, in her shadowy nook,
Her scythe propped nearby, her death list a cookbook.
And if you smell cookies, sweet as a hymn,
Beware, dear traveler, she’s baking for you next time.