Climb the creaking altar steps,
carved of blood and oak.
Take your place in hell’s parade,
inhale the Devils smoke.
Watch with eyes as wide plates,
as one head, two heads fall.
Watch the blade, Deaths own scythe,
as it cuts through bone and all.
Smell the blood, hear the cheers,
as you’re laid most gently down.
See the clouds and blinding sun,
hear the roars that rip through town.
Hiccup once, then hiccup twice,
blink to keep the tears at bay.
Plead and cry and scream and shout,
finally closing your eyes to pray.
The blade is raised, high above,
scarlet drops do stain your dress.
You utter one last silent prayer,
as you wait for its caress.
The audience falls silent,
looking on with baited breath.
They want your head, you aristocrat!
All they desire is your death!
A whistle of wind, a call of a crow,
you brace yourself for pain.
The blade connects, your heart gal-umps,
then it’s over – you are slain.
Your head is mounted upon a stick,
for all of France to see.
Your body is tossed like a chambermaids rag,
into the hoard of petite bourgeoisie.