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In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux |
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They raised a wooden stage |
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Threw some bran in a basket |
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And there was the scaffold |
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In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux |
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In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux |
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The executioner rose at dawn |
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He had a job to do |
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He must chop the generals, bishops and admirals too |
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In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux |
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Into the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux |
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Came the well-bred women |
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With their precious jewels |
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But the heads they turned them |
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Rolling from on high |
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Heads stuck in their hats |
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In the gutter of the Blancs-Manteaux |
