Translation of the song lyrics Lèche-cocu - Georges Brassens

Lèche-cocu (original)

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

Lèche-cocu (translation)

How he pampered husbands
That he showered them with flattery
When he had a crush on their wives
That he had horns on his ass
We called him cuckold
Hear all his infamous story
If the husband was boating
He was telling her about draft
Of sails, foremasts
Of yacht, brick and steamer
He, who suffered from seasickness
Passing the bridges of the Seine
If the man was a little bigoted
He who smelled strongly of fagot
Filled the sky with paternosters
Communicated loudly
Even withdrawing in some cases
The blessed bread from the mouth of another
If the man was a town sergeant
In a necklace — my God, how vile —
He was wearing a plush cop
He who, without sparing his voice
Cried: "Death to the cows" once
Even with whooping cough
If the man was an activist
He was taking his card just now
To put yourself in his sleeve
Crossing out his own graffiti
From Friday, Saturday
Those of Saturday, Sunday
What if the man was in the army
He intoned to charm him:
"Sambre-et-Meuse" and all the folklore
He, the bleating pacifist
who made kites
With the tricolor