by Etienne Noret
Enjolras is our fearless leader
And he doesn’t like the girls.
He’s very devoted to France and our cause
And we all like his curls.
Combeferre holds the group together
And patches up the fights.
His motto is civilization
So he doesn’t get out many nights.
Prouvaire is our poet, addicted to love,
A devil among the ladies.
He dresses badly and dreams all day
Discoursing upon Jupiter and Hades.
Feuilly’s much to be admired
He’s taught himself to read and write.
He rants on about the Poles and history
A workingman who fights.
Courfeyrac is a splendid fellow,
He thinks that he’s in love.
There he goes writing lovesick poems
To his current “turtledove”.
Bahorel is irrepressible
And he loves to engender a brawl.
He’ll never be a lawyer
If he keeps making fun of us all.
We’re not quite sure what his name is,
Something about an eagle,
Or perhaps a long dead poet
But we’re sure it can’t be legal.
Joly, the hypochondriac
There’s one in every group,
Quite fond of speaking through his nose
And often down with the croup.
Grantaire is a hopeless cynic
He loves the girls and he loves good wine
He only believes in Enjolras,
Who’s the pearls to Grantaire’s swine.
Gavroche in indescribable
The king of the Paris streets.
A quintessential gamin
To hear what he repeats.
Marius, dear Marius
He’s gone and found a jade.
Still he still sits and dreams of her
But shows up at the barricade!
Because I am the author
And I’m not in the Book.
I have written these few verses
And brevity forsook.