Wagon's old, not worth salvation Angelic voices, a requiem and the wheel Splintered to her touch The wagon's load was scaffold To build fleeting stages for lingering deaths Something he said, now seems unreal, "The world over, thou wilt not find The demons that exist in the human mind" And he a naturalist and scholar Twas just luck it happened to rhyme The cudgel came down fast upon him Them wheels seen every gate in Paris Shattered them bones through the spokes Dragged by fine horses, all gone now His mouth moved, he tried to speak But his body was broken, poor soul Oh there were fine gentlemen and ladies Looking out from them fine buildings There were even children among them Not one part of that wagon was wasted Like a farmer can use every bit of a pig "The world over, thou wilt not find The demons that exist in the human mind" Was that what he was trying to say? Butchery's an art executioners say Rest of the wagon they used for his pyre Not one bit went to waste. Fancy!