The Shame of Robespierre

In Parisian squares, she chopped.

until she'd quelled her sinful mob,

while angels graced her lurid mist

and frowned upon his justice,

and crowds regaled in rotting fruits,

as cheered her fatal razor.

For heartless in that leaden gloom

stood Mariah tall and keen,

while haunted, Robespierre did weep,

lain on her breasts to pray, but fair

she was, and sharp she came to wrest

him from his duty.