In a country of many of them in a row,
a coin became a louis.
For the hated XVth
a louis was a hundredth of a franc.
No-one dared do that to Napoleon.
His coins were the best.
You would have thought we'd have called
a coin a betty, she's been going on so long.
Maybe we didn't out of respect:
she's worth more than a farthing,
but not the best;
or won't be
until she's at rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem