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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 pampered the husbands, He covered them with flattery When he aimed at their women, As he had horns in his ass, He was called lick-cuckoo. Listen all to his infamous story. If the husband liked sailing, He spoke about draft, Sails, mats of foresight, Yacht, schooner and steamer, He, who was suffering from seasickness Passing the bridges of the Seine. If the man was a little bigot, He who was rumoured of heresy Wrapped the sky with paternosters, Took communion showing off, Even in some cases snatching The blessed bread from another’s mouth. If the man was a city sergeant, As a necklace - my God, that’s vile - He was wearing a stuffed cop, He who, without moderating his voice, Shouted some time ago: «Death to the bourgeois», Even when affected by whooping cough. If the man was a political activist, He was taking his party card instantly To put yourself in his sleeve, Biffing his own graffiti Friday, Saturday Those of Saturday, Sunday. And if the man was in the Army, He intoned to charm him: «Sambre and Meuse» and all the folklore, Him, the beloved pacifist Who made kites With the tricolour flag. Well, this unfortunate bum Did it all in vain because Being like ass and shirt With husbands, he could Never achieve its goal: To touch the promised buttocks. Delighted, these husbands were on the heels Of this guy who flatter them In the city, as in the countryside, Not leaving him the opportunity To find himself, what a derision, Alone with their companions. And us, friends, cousins, neighbours, Taking advantage (we are not saints) That these two imbeciles Exchanged compliments and niceties, We shared their dulcinea Who allowed quietly our play. And, while lick-cuckold Bowed, horns in the ass, In front of its potential victims, To be sure, we also slept -The morality was thus saved- With his legitimate wife. |