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!