Poor old Marat, they hunt you down
The bloodhounds are sniffing all over the town
Just yesterday, your printing press was smashed
Now they're asking your home address

Poor old Marat, in you we trust
You work till your eyes turn as red as rust
But while you write, they're on your track
The boots mount the staircase
The door's thrown back

Marat/Sade by Peter Weiss