Agent McCrisp

Agent McCrisp slipped into the silo,
A trenchcoat of cinnamon’s halo.
Each Northern Spy filed
In classified style,
And the harvest records? Quite aglow.

She misfiled a log as “classified
Pie blueprint”—a filing that mystified
The entire archive.
The crust won’t survive
The scrutiny. (Flavor verified.)

She erased a metadata trail
To cover her tracks—without fail.
The auditors stumbled,
The filing crumbled,
And the stealth operation set sail.

She deployed cinnamon shavings one night
During review—obscuring each sight
Of the filing beneath.
The aromatic wreath
Left the records deliciously right.

“Crisp covert, archive unseen,” she said,
While the shadows of boughs stretched ahead.
Each Northern Spy baking
Record was making
Its way to a classified shred.

Her stealth chants vanish in the dark—
Each hymn a pomological spark.
The silo’s embrace,
The cinnamon trace,
And the archives are covert and stark.

She wears a trenchcoat lined with spice—
Each filing a beautiful vice.
The cinnamon shavings
Are covert engravings,
And the baking records are precise.

She files reports to a mailbox
That doesn’t exist—security talks
In the Spy Silo’s shade,
Each filing delayed
By the classified, cinnamon-scented locks.

Her elusive yet precise demeanor
Makes every harvest log leaner.
The Northern Spy’s crispness
Is filed with this swiftness:
No trail, no trace, not a gleaner.

So if cinnamon scents fill the air
And the harvest records aren’t there,
That’s Agent McCrisp:
Where the filing’s a wisp,
And the stealth is beyond compare.