Claude Frollo
"Beata Maria, I know that I'm a righteous man."
Proud and pure, high above the common man he soared
Still young, yet master over a cathedral, his own lord
His brow focused on the high arts - alchemy, medicine and such
Lost his focus one day, it was because of her
The little gypsy girl, the witch who stole his flame
He couldn't turn his gaze from her wild dance
All she had, she showed without shame, no matter the men
At first disgust at this display, later passionate flames
He knew he was in the wrong, but there was nothing else
His high arts out the window, all his brain belongs to her
Going to bed, she's there; Waking up, she's still there
Stalking the showy rake that stole her childish ways
The conceited man lets our hero in on the game
When he's about to enter the gypsy's little frame
Our man enters the picture again, hand held high with a blade
The rake's unguarded back gets hit again and again
The little witch shocked, the rake faint, our man takes escape
"Who is to blame? None other than the little black snake!"
it was his hand, but the fault lies with her
So there is nothing wrong with the judge's ire falling upon her
She goes through hell, saved by a disfigured male
Hidden in the cathedral, long are her days
The hero of this poem finds out that it's her again
Still engulfed by the passion's unquenchable flames
He wishes to make her his only precious gain
The little witch rejects his grace, spitting on his name
"You chose this fate, you damned harlotish ingrate!"
So he delivers her into the guards' hands
With delight he learns of her sullen fate
Hanged on the gallows with the knave sitting on her nape!
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