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I had been placed in chains Where the cripples shed their canes And the blind regained the art of seeing. It was a robbers’ den And as all God fearing men, I had assets needed freeing. Sometimes the poet’s muse Is a bride who will refuse All his conjugal solicitations. He must lure to bed Any tramp that turns his head With unchaste alliterations: And so it goes... He’d lived his life alone In a hermitage of stone Where he rang those bells for all occasions; Like the feasts of saints, For the widows’ sad complaints, And for joyous celebrations. It's said confusion rules At the Festival of Fools And the scene below just seemed to prove it. So he clambered down And was regent of the crown Till Claude Frollo’s hand removed it. He smelled her perfumed hair From across Cathedral Square And the fragrance soothed his loss of hearing; For her silent dance Cast a soul ensnaring trance Both enticing and endearing. She was a barefoot girl With her gypsy skirt a swirl As the minstrels played a tarantella; Graceful as fabric spun From a gently setting sun, And he pined for Esméralda. But when the maid fell hard For the Captain of the Guard As a villain plotted her seduction, His trust was put to test On a futile, wicked quest In abetting her abduction. And so he bore the blame When the warden called his name As they bared his back to take a whipping. He felt each lash stroke bleed, The injustice of the deed Set those righteous scales to tipping. While the Archdeacon's kin, Who was guilty of the sin, Stalked the halls as Satan’s emissary, A young girl’s tortured plea Brought his fool to guarantee Esméralda's sanctuary. In a defiant act When the rebel mob attacked, He strained his crooked back to save the maiden; And called the angels home With the tolling of Guillaume, Like hard currency to trade in. He ran from wall to wall, Hurling curses at them all, Raining molten lead down on the rabble, From the gargoyles’ throats To the beggars’ ragged coats In a symphony of babble. But it was all in vain; He could laugh himself insane, Still those oaken doors were being battered, And the dénouement Left his ashes in the straw, Proving love was all that mattered.

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Esmeralda, As Told By the Poet Pierre Gringoire - With Apologies To Victor Hugo

I had been placed in chains Where the cripples shed their canes And the blind regained the art of seeing. It was a robbers’ den And as all God fearing men, I had assets needed freeing. Sometimes the poet’s muse Is a bride who will refuse All his conjugal solicitations. He must lure to bed Any tramp that turns his head With unchaste alliterations: And so it goes... He’d lived his life alone In a hermitage of stone Where he rang those bells for all occasions; Like the feasts of saints, For the widows’ sad complaints, And for joyous celebrations. It's said confusion rules At the Festival of Fools And the scene below just seemed to prove it. So he clambered down And was regent of the crown Till Claude Frollo’s hand removed it. He smelled her perfumed hair From across Cathedral Square And the fragrance soothed his loss of hearing; For her silent dance Cast a soul ensnaring trance Both enticing and endearing. She was a barefoot girl With her gypsy skirt a swirl As the minstrels played a tarantella; Graceful as fabric spun From a gently setting sun, And he pined for Esméralda. But when the maid fell hard For the Captain of the Guard As a villain plotted her seduction, His trust was put to test On a futile, wicked quest In abetting her abduction. And so he bore the blame When the warden called his name As they bared his back to take a whipping. He felt each lash stroke bleed, The injustice of the deed Set those righteous scales to tipping. While the Archdeacon's kin, Who was guilty of the sin, Stalked the halls as Satan’s emissary, A young girl’s tortured plea Brought his fool to guarantee Esméralda's sanctuary. In a defiant act When the rebel mob attacked, He strained his crooked back to save the maiden; And called the angels home With the tolling of Guillaume, Like hard currency to trade in. He ran from wall to wall, Hurling curses at them all, Raining molten lead down on the rabble, From the gargoyles’ throats To the beggars’ ragged coats In a symphony of babble. But it was all in vain; He could laugh himself insane, Still those oaken doors were being battered, And the dénouement Left his ashes in the straw, Proving love was all that mattered.