One cold hard winter in the heart of France
A place of peace and sweet romance
Back ago, some centuries,
In the white of fog and snow flurries
Comes a tale I know to be true,
Of a heartless beast they called Courtaud.

He came from the woods with his hellish call,
Passed through the forgotten desolate wall,
And marched with his pack and a taste for blood
through the pivot blanc and the icy mud.
And bless any soul that they came upon,
For réduit à l'essentiel,
then they'd be gone.

Oh and your fate was grim if you ever did see,
the diabolique, loups de Paris.

They'd find you, bind you, leave just scattered bones,
In the alley, the market, église, or home.
They'll taunt you, haunt you, right down to your core
They'll rip you to shreds and leave your body limp et mort

But the commoners spirit was mighty and strong,
and they sat down to think and before very long,
Came up with a plan to rid them of Courtaud,
The hound from hell, and his wild pack too.

So one harrowed night in le  Ile de La Cité,
they found the vieux loup with his stance at the ready,
And with steady minds and keeping their distance
To where they went was no coincidence,
For when they reached the steps of Notre Dame,
Courtaud and his crew met a mightier throng,

By sticks and stones they all were buried,
By whatever the villagers could manage to carry,
And mal courtaud, his head did swoon,
as he took his last gasp under le lune.
With the 40 lay dead, he himself had slained,
and a pile of stone was all he became.

So remember dear enfants when you lie en tes lit
That you'll always be safe from Les Loups de Paris