Zut! Je m’appele Maximilien;
I’m the leader of the band.
I chop noggins; in tumbrels
They fall, and I’m feeling grand.
I’m crazy for beheadings;
There’ll be no more fancy balls.
We got no time for funerals
At the rate the pates fall.

Oh, the drums go bang
And the symbols, gang,
Of the kings’ bull—gone away.
M. Antoinette, they call “baboon.”
Queen for just one more day.
This reine [1] who beamed, “Let them eat strudel,” soon moot,
And her Louis too will be canned.
They’ve had it ’cause there’s ire fanned in Maximilien’s band.

Zut! Il s’appele le roi Louis Seize;
His neck’s a bleedin’ stump.
Because of Maximilien’s band,
He’s ’bout five pounds less plump.
They’ll drag his body through the street
With his lady from a land
In which the hoarse-throated Volk[2] says
Bonn mots[3] you won’t hear in France.

They were tearing off her glam rocks,
Such as emeralds so green.
They said, “These no more you’ll ever need!”
They queen-vented their spleen.
There was cryin’ and sighin’
At seein’ nonbein’.
The grumpy firebrand shed much vermillion.
Watched the royals bleed, did Maximilien’s band

Oh, the blade goes bang,
And the tumbrels clang,
And the faces, shaved away.
M. Antoinette is laid bas[4] soon,
Queen for just one more day.
This reine’ll be headlessly spookily mute,
And her Louis’ll too be trepanned.
They’ve had it ’cause there’s ire fanned; then Max as well’s depanned[5].


1 queen
2 populace
3 play on “bons mots”
4 low
5 pan: slang for face