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 himself–on 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!