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| Home → Recorded Songs → 1976 → Lèche-cocu |
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| Lèche-cocu | Cuckolds’ licker | ||
| Comme il chouchoutait les maris, Qu’il les couvrait de flatteries Quand il en pinçait pour leurs femmes, Qu’il avait des cornes au cul, On l’appelait lèche-cocu. Oyez tous son histoire infâme. Si l’mari faisait du bateau, Il lui parlait de tirant d’eau, De voiles, de mâts de misaine, De yacht, de brick et de steamer, Lui, qui souffrait du mal de mer En passant les ponts de la Seine. Si l’homme était un peu bigot, Lui qui sentait fort le fagot Criblait le ciel de patenôtres, Communiait à grand fracas, Retirant même en certains cas L’pain bénit d’la bouche d’un autre. Si l’homme était sergent de ville, En sautoir - mon Dieu, que c’est vil - Il portait un flic en peluche, Lui qui, sans ménager sa voix, Criait : «Mort aux vaches» autrefois, Même atteint de la coqueluche. Si l’homme était un militant, Il prenait sa carte à l’instant Pour bien se mettre dans sa manche, Biffant ses propres graffiti Du vendredi, le samedi Ceux du samedi, le dimanche. Et si l’homme était dans l’armée, Il entonnait pour le charmer : «Sambre-et-Meuse» et tout le folklore, Lui, le pacifiste bêlant Qui fabriquait des cerfs-volants Avec le drapeau tricolore. Eh bien, ce malheureux tocard Faisait tout ça vainement, car Étant comme cul et chemise Avec les maris, il ne put Jamais parvenir à son but: Toucher à la fesse promise. Ravis, ces messieurs talonnaient Ce bougre qui les flagornait À la ville, comme à la campagne, Ne lui laissant pas l’occasion De se trouver, quelle dérision, Seul à seul avec leurs compagnes. Et nous, copains, cousins, voisins, Profitant (on n’est pas des saints) De ce que ces deux imbéciles Se passaient rhubarbe et séné, On s’partageait leur dulcinée Qui se laissait faire docile. Et, tandis que lèche-cocu Se prosternait cornes au cul Devant ses éventuelles victimes, Par surcroît, l’on couchait aussi –La morale était sauve ainsi– Avec sa femme légitime. |
As he fawned over the husbands, Covering them with flattery While setting his sights on their wives, With lust burning in his loins, He was known as the Cuckold-Licker. Hear now his infamous story. If the husband liked sailing, He would talk of wind and draft, Topmasts, foresails and rigging, Yachts, schooners and steamers, He, who got seasick Crossing the bridges of the Seine. If the man was a bit of a bigot, He who was rumoured a heretic Would shower heaven with paternosters, Take communion ostentatiously, Even, in some cases, snatching The blessed bread from another’s mouth. If the man was a city sergeant, He would wear, like a badge of honour - God, how vile - A toy policeman round his neck, He who, without lowering his voice, Had once shouted: «Death to the bourgeois», Even when racked with whooping cough. If the man was a political activist, He would instantly pull out his party card To tuck inside his sleeve, Crossing out his own slogans Of Friday, on Saturday Those of Saturday, on Sunday. And if the man was in the Army, He would strike out, to win him over: «Sambre et Meuse» and all the military folklore, He, the devoted pacifist, Who used to make kites Out of the tricolour flag. Well, this miserable wretch Did it all for nothing, because Being tick as thieves With the husbands, he could Never achieve his goal: To get his hands on the coveted buttocks. Delighted, these husbands stuck Like glue to this flatterer, In town as in the countryside, Never leaving him the chance To find himself alone, what a joke, With their wives. And we, friends, cousins, neighbours, Taking advantage (we are no saints) Of the fact that these two fools Were busy exchanging compliments and pleasantries, We shared their dulcineas Who let us have our way without a fuss. And, while the Cuckold-Licker Scraped and bowed, lust in his loins, Before his would-be conquests, We were also sleeping, naturally, With his own lawful wife. Thus was morality preserved. |