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"courtaud" poems
One cold hard winter in the heart of France A place of peace and sweet romance Back ago, some centuries, In the white of fog and snow flurries Comes a tale I know to be true, Of a heartless beast they called Courtaud. He came from the woods with his hellish call, Passed through the forgotten desolate wall, And marched with his pack and a taste for blood through the pivot blanc and the icy mud. And bless any soul that they came upon, For réduit à l'essentiel, then they'd be gone. Oh and your fate was grim if you ever did see, the diabolique, loups de Paris. They'd find you, bind you, leave just scattered bones, In the alley, the market, église, or home. They'll taunt you, haunt you, right down to your core They'll rip you to shreds and leave your body limp et mort But the commoners spirit was mighty and strong, and they sat down to think and before very long, Came up with a plan to rid them of Courtaud, The hound from hell, and his wild pack too. So one harrowed night in le Ile de La Cité, they found the vieux loup with his stance at the ready, And with steady minds and keeping their distance To where they went was no coincidence, For when they reached the steps of Notre Dame, Courtaud and his crew met a mightier throng, By sticks and stones they all were buried, By whatever the villagers could manage to carry, And mal courtaud, his head did swoon, as he took his last gasp under le lune. With the 40 lay dead, he himself had slained, and a pile of stone was all he became. So remember dear enfants when you lie en tes lit That you'll always be safe from Les Loups de Paris
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Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
corbin-major
Les Loups de Paris
One cold hard winter in the heart of France A place of peace and sweet romance Back ago, some centuries, In the white of fog and snow flurries Comes a tale I know to be true, Of a heartless beast they called Courtaud. He came from the woods with his hellish call, Passed through the forgotten desolate wall, And marched with his pack and a taste for blood through the pivot blanc and the icy mud. And bless any soul that they came upon, For réduit à l'essentiel, then they'd be gone. Oh and your fate was grim if you ever did see, the diabolique, loups de Paris. They'd find you, bind you, leave just scattered bones, In the alley, the market, église, or home. They'll taunt you, haunt you, right down to your core They'll rip you to shreds and leave your body limp et mort But the commoners spirit was mighty and strong, and they sat down to think and before very long, Came up with a plan to rid them of Courtaud, The hound from hell, and his wild pack too. So one harrowed night in le Ile de La Cité, they found the vieux loup with his stance at the ready, And with steady minds and keeping their distance To where they went was no coincidence, For when they reached the steps of Notre Dame, Courtaud and his crew met a mightier throng, By sticks and stones they all were buried, By whatever the villagers could manage to carry, And mal courtaud, his head did swoon, as he took his last gasp under le lune. With the 40 lay dead, he himself had slained, and a pile of stone was all he became. So remember dear enfants when you lie en tes lit That you'll always be safe from Les Loups de Paris
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C'est le chien de Jean de Nivelle Qui mord sous l'œil même du guet Le chat de la mère Michel ; François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie. La Lune à l'écrivain public Dispense sa lumière obscure Où Médor avec Angélique Verdissent sur le pauvre mur. Et voici venir La Ramée Sacrant en bon soldat du Roy. Sous son habit blanc mal famé, Son cœur ne se tient pas de joie, Car la boulangère... - Elle ? - Oui dam ! Bernant Lustucru, son vieil homme, A tantôt couronné sa flamme... Enfants, Dominus vobiscum ! Place ! en sa longue robe bleue Toute en satin qui fait frou-frou, C'est une impure, palsembleu ! Dans sa chaise qu'il faut qu'on loue Fût-on philosophe ou grigou, Car tant d'or s'y relève en bosse Que ce luxe insolent bafoue Tout le papier de monsieur Loss ! Arrière ! robin crotté ! place, Petit courtaud, petit abbé, Petit poète jamais las De la rime non attrapée ! Voici que la nuit vraie arrive... Cependant jamais fatigué D'être inattentif et naïf François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.
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Paul Verlaine
Le chien de Jean de Nivelle
C'est le chien de Jean de Nivelle Qui mord sous l'œil même du guet Le chat de la mère Michel ; François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie. La Lune à l'écrivain public Dispense sa lumière obscure Où Médor avec Angélique Verdissent sur le pauvre mur. Et voici venir La Ramée Sacrant en bon soldat du Roy. Sous son habit blanc mal famé, Son cœur ne se tient pas de joie, Car la boulangère... - Elle ? - Oui dam ! Bernant Lustucru, son vieil homme, A tantôt couronné sa flamme... Enfants, Dominus vobiscum ! Place ! en sa longue robe bleue Toute en satin qui fait frou-frou, C'est une impure, palsembleu ! Dans sa chaise qu'il faut qu'on loue Fût-on philosophe ou grigou, Car tant d'or s'y relève en bosse Que ce luxe insolent bafoue Tout le papier de monsieur Loss ! Arrière ! robin crotté ! place, Petit courtaud, petit abbé, Petit poète jamais las De la rime non attrapée ! Voici que la nuit vraie arrive... Cependant jamais fatigué D'être inattentif et naïf François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.
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