I'm here to tell a story
'Bout The Maid of Orléans,
Six hundred years ago
But her legend still carries on.

Raised in Domrémy,
Orléans is her turf.
En Français,
Her age is dix-neuf.

Born in 1412,
The eighth day before Ides,
The youngest of the family;
A little French fry.

When the bells did ring,
Down on her knees she would pray,
Instead of playing with her friends,
She'd be in church all day.

Joanie had three saints;
Mickey, Marge and Cat,
Did whatever they said,
Cos God was all-o-that.

At first they argued,
They couldn't agree.
But Mickey had his way;
With war they'd set France free.

So it was off to Chinon
To see a bloke called Charlie
With a horse and a standard,
Now she had her own army.

Marched off to Orléans
On her way to Reims,
With her hair cut short,
Yeah, she was one of them.

Snuck into the city
Captured Les Tourelles,
With God on her side,
The English morale fell.

But it wasn't just her battles
That she was well-known for;
But also for the way
That she had treated the poor.

She cared for them deeply,
They were treated with love.
She was liberal with alms,
Was one of God's sweet doves.

Jehanne was real nice
And even kinda funny.
I bet she's cuddly too;
My Eucharistic easter bunny.

But it all could not be;
Her attack on Paris had failed
Burgundy sold her,
And to the English was mailed.

She was stuck in prison
And then put on trial,
But the way that they had treated her
Was really quite vile.

On the cold prison floor,
Curled up in a ball
Jehanne was all alone,
She had no one at all.

But Jehanne stayed strong
And she stayed smart.
She had the lines of questioning
Down to an art.

"I'll pull your ears!"
Yeah, that's what she said
To the scribe at her trial
When the wrong things were read.

Stuck back in her cell
And beaten by the guard,
Already bruised and dirty
From a life that was hard.

The fish was poisoned,
The chicken no good,
And if you think that's bad,
The steak was made of wood.

The English didn't like her;
Called her a liar,
Taped her to a stick
And said "Kill it with fire."

She signed a confession,
And then took it back
But now the Church was angry;
They were on the attack.

Kissed by the flames,
And surrounded by fire,
A white dove from heaven
Then flew over her pyre.

Martyr she was,
Sinner she ain't,
With "Jesus!" on her lips,
They had just killed a saint.

Unlike the dove,
Jehanne never sang or danced,
But who really cares?
She's the Flower of France.