Butcher Lover

Georges Boulanger was an elegant general - blue upholstery, blonde
d?cor -
when Clemenceau appointed him a minister of war
Three years from then he'd won a Paris seat and stood to gain
He'd Paris by her line-dashed throat and he straddled the Seine
but even in the midst of his victory the celebrations were brief
for he was under an ashen moon with his lover, defying all belief

The public they adored him. His bearded face inflamed
their passion and their pride when Grevy's son-in-law was shamed
He promised them some heavens with the rasp of a montebank
His gestures spoke of freedom, his uniform of rank
but in the wake of his victory, there came the tide of relief
for he stood over the grave of his lover, alone on stage, in
grief

His rhetoric was stunning. He won the heart of France
He pulled her waist to his and clenched her haunch for the dance
They waltzed about the Eiffel and they swooned across the stage
He rifled through her dress and she came - what a beautiful age
But where he might have savoured victory, this charming, winsome
thief
instead lay over the grave of his lover, a cold and withered wreath