FATHER Couture loves a fricassee,
Served with a sip of home-made wine,
He is the Curé, so jolly and free,
And lives in Petite Ste. Rosalie.
On Easter Sunday when one must dine,
Father Couture loves a fricassee.
No stern ascetic, no stoic is he,
Preaching a rigid right divine.
He is the Curé, so jolly and free,
That while he maintains his dignity,
When Lent is past and the weather is fine,
Father Couture loves a fricassee.
He kills his chicken himselfon dit,
And who is there dare the deed malign?
He is the Curé, so jolly and free.
Open and courteous, fond of a fee,
The village deity, bland and benign,
Father Couture loves a fricassee,
He's a sensible Curé, so jolly and free!
