In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux

They raised a wooden stage

Threw some bran in a basket

And there was the scaffold

In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux



In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux

The executioner rose at dawn

He had a job to do

He must chop the generals, bishops and admirals too

In the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux



Into the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux

Came the well-bred women

With their precious jewels

But the heads they turned them

Rolling from on high 

Heads stuck in their hats



In the gutter of the Blancs-Manteaux