Snitches

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