In old Paris, when Louis’s king,
A boy meets girl, sweeps her away.

Some say, loon is this guy, got a disfigured eye,
Quasimodo.
With a visage like swine, swigs like a pig swill wine—
Quasi-Rhône blows.

Bells he’ll ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling,
And they’ll say, “C’est très belle, non?”
On Sunday, sip-vintage fun day, dipso-tipsy bray—
Can that maimed fellow bellow!

He’s crowned “pope,” and that’s cruel, but he plays the part of fool,
Quasimodo.
Dancing out on the street, girl meets lout; she’s so sweet;
He’s in love.
He gives her a smile’s beam; she eyes him and high screams,
Qualm’d, “He’s oh so
Butt-ugly!” But it’s he saves sweet she from horny
Claude “Mean” Frollo.

She has swooned, so this guy rescues her, takes her high. . .
Vertigo, no
. . .to the parapets’ clime, where he makes his “girls” chime,
Clanging tolls grow.
Bells he’ll ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling,
And he’ll say, “Vous, très belle, non?”
“It’s OK, fellow, to ‘tu’ say.” Down below’s a fray
The mob brays; it’s not mellow.
How they bellow.

It’s hump day. . .works like mule with his crude parapet tools,
Quasimodo
From the Dame the crowd meets boiling oil; ouch! there’s heat
From above!
Down it streams; the crowd teems; loud shouts, screams; down show’r beams
Crashing. Oh-oh!
Noosed is she ’ventually; his love for her, can he
Quash it—oh, no!