The skies were a ghastly scarlet,
The trees a sallow waste.
Across the square ran a King's varlet
Running--Hiding--
Avoiding the merciless guillotine,
His mind was greatly chiding.

An apprentice to a knight and destined to one day become;
What a job, when you are the King's illegitimate son.
But serve this task, he must

Until the palace gates rust,
And pay for the King's wicked lust.

'Tis a sad fate,
When one's father you must hate.
But he was still his father,
And though he hated him--
Severely--Sincerely,
Although he hated his father austerely,
Like Filial love, there is no other.

A British man in exile taking refuge in neighboring France.
William Coppedge had made it to Paris, doing so with barely a chance.
His pregnant wife tortuously giving birth,
Then Death smiled maliciously with mirth,
As the woman passed away--
Taking--Fading
Charlotte was born, her eyes an enigmatic gray
(Her father's hands were shaking.)

The varlet ran to a dark alley to fetch his wild horse.
He climbed on top of it, quickly, expecting the very worse.
With his stallion he rode through the night,
And galloped with all his might,
Riding--Hiding--
Avoiding the terrible fighting
Near where his only love's residing.

He arrived at the dim lit street
Then he stood up on his feet
And walked to a small cottage
Sneaking--Peeking
Seeking the one for whom his heart was beating
In, he walked into the home of Charlotte Coppedge.

The pair had loved each other since the first encounter.
They fell more and more in love with every stolen saunter.
But she was a refugee's orphan daughter,

The war had taken her father,
And he was a king's varlet,
Not at all like his dear Charlotte.


And day by day,
Although he tried his best to keep his heart at bay,
He visited his pauper sweetheart,
Sneaking--Peaking
Seeking her love in the moonlight,
Because nothing could keep them apart.

But the people of France were a-rioting,
The battle gunshots disquieting.
And the country prepared for war,
Not at all like the peaceful state of before.

The Revolutionaries tore--
Killing--Spilling
Chilling the spines of the royalists,
And paving the streets with gore.

And alas, came January.
(O, fateful January)
The dreadful month that made citizens forever wary.
Upon '93, the King was charged with treason--
Unnerving--Deserving,
'Twas his fate for serving,
And ruling without reason.



He was to die by guillotine execution,
After many years of persecution.
The same way many of his subjects had died by his own hand,
Unnerving--Deserving,
Soon, he would be serving Death at his peoples' command.

The skies were a ghastly scarlet,
The trees a sallow waste.
Across the square ran the King's varlet
Running--Hiding--
Avoiding the merciless guillotine,
His fears were greatly rising.

Large crowds had gathered 'round,
To witness His Royal Head hit the ground
Artists drew the crowd cheering with incredible detail--
With nervousness they inhaled,
Waiting for Hanson, the executioner, to prevail.


Finally, Hanson dropped it,
And the whole city applauded.
So the varlet responded--
Zooming--Dashing--
Running towards the merciless guillotine,
With a strange desire to avenge the King's death, he absconded.
"NO!" he screamed as he ran through the crowd.
But Hanson only thrust Louis' head in the air, proud.
Then he threw it down,
And King Louis' head came toppling--
Toppling--Tumbling,
King Louis' head came falling at the young man's feet.

'Tis a sad fate,
When one's father you must hate.
But he was still his father,
And though he hated him--
Severely--Sincerely,
Although he hated his father austerely,
Like Filial love, there is no other.

Mourning his father's life,
He cried bitter tears.
Alas, by showing his strife,
He awoke his worst fear;

A radical watched the scene,
Disgusted at what the King's death
(To the young man)
Must mean.

Outraged, he ran,
With his musket in his hand,
Pointing at the varlet, he pulled the trigger,
Piercing--Shooting--
Rupturing the varlet's heart,
And cackling with drunken vigor.

But the varlet fought it,
His body going hectic,
And dragged himself to the guillotine--
Faltering--Halting--
Staggering to the merciless guillotine,
Begging for his own death.

A man walks towards the varlet,
Telling him to seek help for his chest so scarlet.
The varlet begged the man to pull the rope,
And so, in pity, the man did--
Sobbing--Pulling,
And the varlet died, finally, after having found no hope.

Soon, Charlotte heard of the news,
She was devastated and pinched herself until she was bruised.
How could any of this be real?
She should have died at the Storming of Bastille.



Quickly, she concealed an object within her gown.
As she hurried away to the square, tears cascaded down.
And she ran--
Like a mourning lover only can--
And found her varlet's severed head lying next to his body, drowned
(In blood).

"Andre. Andre. Andre." she muttered.
An insurmountable sadness fell over her.
She was so melancholy; any other phrase could not be uttered.
But she continued her mission, undeterred.

She took his head and paired it with his neck.
She knew he would not come back to life, no matter how many tears she shed.
She pulled out a shining dagger, jeweled at the hilt.
But slightly grimaced, and had a feeling of guilt.

She kissed his lips and told him "je t'aime mais au revoir."
Then she grabbed the dagger and stabbed at her chest.
One final gasp and she listened no more to the rest.
Then her eyes started flickering--
Closing--Closing,
Shutting out the light of the world and whispering,
"I'm coming with you, my dear Andre Francois."