There was once a girl who sold baguettes,
Whose hair was long and curly.
She was a petite brunette.
With a tattered flowing gown,
She walked around town.
In her wooden shoes her feet hurt,
But the walk was what needed to be done,
Being lucky to avoid a marksman's gun.
She who was born, whom longed to be a princess,
Was born in an epoc of great bloodshed,
Where queens die young, lose their head.
Perhaps that is for the best.
For at least lady baguette wont starve,
Like her fallen comrads against the king,
For want of bread.
