Strange, ugly, this Frenchman uses arms for scramblin’
up the towers to make his “friends,” the bells, cry.
You’ll have guessed: it is the hunchback of Notre Dame;
although he’s deformed, he’s surprisingly spry.

(High-speed gait; on his feet, light)

With his ringing, he has never caused an error,
but he’s put no plugs inside his otic parts,
so within there he can’t hear the bells’ blare
every time they’re playing an air.
Substance hot as hell boils—it ain’t water
crackling and fizzling. . .molten lead o’er the fire’s spark.

While down below it isn’t as damp as St. Mark’s.

Pealing tocsin, hot lead poured on the attackers. . .
repelled; molten metal from gargoyles departs.
With this hot burning substance they’re covered—
lays their skin bare, beyond repair.
It’s mass [sic] derangement in cathedral square.
But Esmeralda’s saved. . .again the pealing starts.

Though all the commotion upset the apple carts.
Across the ocean, blitzed Brit wits make hits with darts.