Oh snitches get stitches, isn\'t that what they say
For the people of Paris always find a way
to tell the lie
a sick one at that
My father my mother, my sister and brother
all wound up on the vicious cutting board
that vial Robespierre, how dare he think
he\'s above it all, like a man on a hoard
The poor, poor people of paris,
There minds twisted and the pockets lay
and empty with just air and moulded over rats
Oh snitches get stitches, isn\'t that what they say