Pillaged and plundered For ages they slumbered The poor people of Paris. They never grudged The king his crown Nor his throne divine, The priest his privileges Nor the lord’s domain Over their body and soul. The king had his arms The priest his miracles The lord his muscles The poor their peaceful sleep Without any dream, Everything in proper places And in proper order As God preordained.
Others there were however Who were neither pauper nor prince. Always they want to climb Lest they slide down They never sleep. They think they get Less than what they would And a few get more than what they should. So they screamed and cried Everything to re-ordain. Provoked to a dream The dream of a heaven Where bread is buttered The poor people woke up from their sleep And led by lady Guillotine They lost their mind And fought as if blind Never knowing who was their friend Who was their foe. The down went up The up went down The king lost his crown The priest his gown And the lord his domain. When the frenzy quieted down The poor looked around To see their handiwork. They saw before them A level ground. But lo! all was not level They were amazed to find In the middle there was a mound With a chair on it not a throne And some people on that chair Who of course wore no crown. They were their priests Without however gowns. The poor dare not own They recognize these men They are the merchants of their dreams.
Because of a bulldozer The land is level without any break Without any cover Where the poor could dream to sleep in peace. Those men on the chair, their conscience keepers, From their vantage ground Jealously spy over the fold Fenced off by barbed wires And overflooded by lights From four big watch towers Preventing the poor From slipping through the fence To flee from their dream Now a nightmare.
Le petit corporal Spare the poor their sleep And may you be the emperor!