I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!
The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot poker
And advances, brandishing it, into the shadows.
The rows of horses flick
Placid tails.
Victorine gives a savage kick
As the nails
Go in. Tap! Tap!
Jules draws a horseshoe from the fire
And beats it from red to peacock-blue and black,
Purpling darker at each whack.
Ding! Dang! Dong!
Ding-a-ding-dong!
It is a long time since any one spoke.
Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes,
Well, he sighs,
Hes broke.
The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows.
Its the green geese, I tell you,
Their hearts are all whites and yellows,
Theres no red in them. Red!
Thats what we want. Fouche should be fed
To the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole.
That would breed jolly fine lick-bloods
To lead his armies to victory.
Ancient history, Sergeant.
Hes done.
Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and Ill stun
You where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist.
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