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
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