Le Bon veuf - Lynda Lemay

La tЄte entre deux tempes grises

Et deux mўchoires bien serr (c)es

Quand mЄme (c)l (c)gant dans sa ch’mise

Un tantinet mal repass (c)e

Parce que le pauvre n’a plus personne

Ni au grenier, ni en cuisine

Pour jouer l’amante et la bonne

D’une main douce et f (c)minine

Il promne sa quarantaine

Avec l’honneur de n'Єtre encore

Qu’un rescap© de cette peine

Que ne peut causer que la mort

Il promne son impuissance

De mari injustement libre

Oblig© d'purger comme sentence

Une perp (c)tuelle absence horrible

Il s’en va la joue presque humide

Et joliment presque ras© D'un pas apparemment solide

Et que l’on suppose (c)branl© Au petit caf© du village

Ou se pressent a le consoler

Des tas d’agr (c)ables visages

Au large sourire d (c)vou© Plus il d (c)balle son histoire

Plus les demoiselles charm (c)es

S’agglutinent, viennent s’asseoir

Auprs du grand d (c)racin© Qui comme g (c)n (c)alogie

Ne semble compter qu’une branche

Celle tomb (c)e, de sa ch (c)rie

De sa d (c)funte, de son ange

Quoi d’plus attrayant qu’un bon veuf

Pour qui une nouvelle vie commence

Qui faute d’avoir un coeur neuf

A l’coeur lav© par le silence

De celle qui dort la bouche close

Avec des secrets plein l’cercueil

Et une douzaine de rouges roses

Qu’il lui a piqu© dans l’orgueil

Avant de fermer le couvercle

Devant la foule d (c)sol (c)e

Qui semblait s'(c)trangler avec

Une sympathie d (c)mesur (c)e

Quoi d’plus s (c)duisant qu’un bon mec

Tout d (c)blanchit de tous soup§ ons

Les ex-(c)poux on les respecte

Surtout en deuil, et en veston

Et c’est la tЄte entre deux planches

Et deux mўchoires bien ciment (c)es

Que la p’tite dame toute blanche

Que l’on a tout endimanch (c)e

Avant d’la mettre dans son trou

Et d’l’ensevelir de cette terre

Dont elle doit la pellet (c)e premire

A son irr (c)prochable (c)poux

Oui c’est la tЄte sous une pierre

Et le dos rong© jusqu' l’os

Qu’elle laisse son bon mari faire

L'(c)loge de leurs si justes noces

Et leur inachev© mariage

Pour lequel mainte villageoises

Postulent le feu au corsage

Et le beau minois en extase

Bien entendu il la louange

Sa belle morte bien aim (c)e

Depuis qu’elle s’est chang (c)e en ange

Et en vitesse, et en fum (c)e

Jamais personne ne saura

Que leur amour battait de l’aile

La morte est sauv (c)e par le ciel

Le veuf est sauv© par le glas

The head between two gray temples

And two tight jaws

Still (c)l (c)glove in his shirt

A tad badly ironed (c)e

Because the poor have no one left

Neither in the attic nor in the kitchen

To play the lover and the maid

With a soft and f (c)minine hand

He walks his forties

With the honor of not being yet

That a survivor of this punishment

What can only death cause

He walks his helplessness

Of unjustly free husband

Forced to serve as a sentence

A perp (c) tuelle horrible absence

He leaves with his cheek almost wet

And pretty nearly shaved© With a seemingly solid step

And that one supposes (c)branl© At the small caf© in the village

Or rush to comfort him

Lots of pleasant faces

With the broad smile of (c)vou© The more he d (c)balls his story

More ladies charm(c)es

Clump together, come and sit down

With the grand d (c)racin© Qui comme g (c)n (c)alogie

Only seems to have one branch

The one who falls (c)e, from his ch (c)rie

Of his d (c)funte, of his angel

What's more attractive than a good widower

For whom a new life begins

Who for lack of a new heart

To the heart washed by the silence

Of the one who sleeps with her mouth shut

With secrets full of the coffin

And a dozen red roses

That he stung him in pride

Before closing the lid

In front of the crowd d (c)sol (c)e

Who seemed to strangle with

A sympathy d (c) measure (c) e

What's more s (c)ducing than a good guy

Everything d (c) clears of all suspicions

The ex-(c)lice we respect them

Especially in mourning, and in a jacket

And it's the head between two planks

And two jaws well cement(c)es

Than the all-white little lady

That we have everything Sunday (c)e

Before putting her in her hole

And bury him from this earth

Of which she owes the pellet (c) e first

To his irr (c)proachable (c)lice

Yes it's the head under a stone

And the back gnaws to the bone

Let her good husband do

The (c) lodge of their so just wedding

And their unfinished marriage

For which many villagers

Postulate fire to bodice

And the pretty face in ecstasy

Of course he praises her

His beautiful dead beloved

Ever since she turned into an angel

And in speed, and in smoke (c)e

No one will ever know

That their love was faltering

The dead is saved by heaven

The widower is saved by death