Reine [queen]—she's a slut who's Louis's girl.
She told the peasants what they should eat.
Read their petition.
Zut! she's a bitch.
"Try something sweet toute de suite.

"Cake, sirs, ça sera.
That's the future of 'to be.'
The subjunctive eludes me.
(I subjugate you to me.)"
She'll part in the cart
To the guillotine.

With the game up, the peasants shove
Her in the meat cart, to lose her head.
They'll watch the reign go
On Bastille Day.
Now here's what the tart says:

"Caped sir, qui sera
The one who will behead me.
No sutures can hold my bean.
So, per capita,
There'll be one less queen."

They have been killed—those on the throne.
But there's another, new tyranny,
Whose shill is handsome.
He hates the rich—
He likes them têtelessly [without heads].

Robespierre's the Czar
Of the Terror mill to be,
Until this coutured dandy
Goes too far, too far
And joins the killees.