A simple Troubadour song

Canadian accent, Folk médiéval, luth, lute, recto-tono, solo voice, ‑Opera, ‑Bel canto, ‑vibrato, ‑tremolo, ‑theatrical, ‑dramatical, ‑agressive, ‑shouting

We find ourselves in front of a young team
that lacks constancy from one game to the next,
depending on circumstances,
from one period to the other.
It’s not the ability that’s missing,
it’s often the intensity that drops.
Yesterday’s game was the proof:
forget the first, they were living in the third.

They forget, because they’re young,
that summer is over.
The day before a game, said Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve,
one must stay quiet in bed.
We rest, sleepy-time,
footed pyjamas like the little kiddies.
I analyzed the whole affair,
I thought well about their little offences:
it’s quite simple — they must not stay up,
we have to let the little ones sleep.

We cannot resurrect Pat Burns,
who, former Montréal policeman,
used to grab them by the scruff of the neck
like rabbits in a rabbit-hutch,
clapping his hands:
“Hop! To bed, my little wolf!”
Halloween is finished for good,
let’s stop playing Batman.
Let us not sadden Saint Maurice Richard,
the only one capable of moving house the night before.
They are too young: they must not stay up.

The major word in our institution
should be stabilization.
Listen, my little Pitou:
don’t you stay up,
and be in shape tomorrow, that’s all.
Remember, in your childhood,
the centre of the power
that ruled the universe of kids:
“You must skate,
don’t lean on your boot,
and in all your ultimate decisions,
forget style.”

You take the puck
and you send it to the net.
Take the puck and you send it to the net.
Take, take the puck
and wham! to the net.
Don’t act like the flame-holder,
don’t think you’re the oriflamme:
you get along with your little buddies
and you send the puck to the net.

Little goal, nice goal,
ugly little nasty goal,
take the puck and send it to the net.
Puck, puck, puck, puck,
make the pass to Bibi,
assisted by Ti-Gusse.
Take the puck
and send it to the net.
Take, take, take the puck,
puck, puck, puck, puck,
and send the puck to the net.

It doesn’t take a bachelor’s degree:
take the puck
and wham! to the net.
But for that,
you must be in shape
and have slept in the night.
The link of trust
that ties you to life:
well done, quickly said,
take the puck
and ship it to the net
with the collaboration
of your little friends.

Puck, puck, puck,
like the grey hen
who laid in the Church,
and you send it to the net — quick said.
It’s the brown hen
who laid on the Moon:
she laid a little egg
for Titou who slept well,
who takes the puck, puck, puck
and sends it to the net.

It’s the black hen
who laid in the wardrobe,
yesterday in the locker room:
take the puck
and be proud,
and send it to the net.

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Me, I am only the troubadour of the universe of the Holy Flannel. I asked permission to sing on the forecourt of the cathedral, right in front of the porches. As a trouvère, that is to say a finder of words, I am not severe, but my heart is heavy. We find ourselves in front of a young team that lacks constancy from one game to the next, depending on circumstances, from one period to the other. It’s not the ability that’s missing, it’s often the intensity that drops. Yesterday’s game was the proof: forget the first, they were living in the third. They forget, because they’re young, that summer is over. The day before a game, said Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve, one must stay quiet in bed. We rest, sleepy-time, footed pyjamas like the little kiddies. I analyzed the whole affair, I thought well about their little offences: it’s quite simple — they must not stay up, we have to let the little ones sleep. We cannot resurrect Pat Burns, who, former Montréal policeman, used to grab them by the scruff of the neck like rabbits in a rabbit-hutch, clapping his hands: “Hop! To bed, my little wolf!” Halloween is finished for good, let’s stop playing Batman. Let us not sadden Saint Maurice Richard, the only one capable of moving house the night before. They are too young: they must not stay up. The major word in our institution should be stabilization. Listen, my little Pitou: don’t you stay up, and be in shape tomorrow, that’s all. Remember, in your childhood, the centre of the power that ruled the universe of kids: “You must skate, don’t lean on your boot, and in all your ultimate decisions, forget style.” You take the puck and you send it to the net. Take the puck and you send it to the net. Take, take the puck and wham! to the net. Don’t act like the flame-holder, don’t think you’re the oriflamme: you get along with your little buddies and you send the puck to the net. Little goal, nice goal, ugly little nasty goal, take the puck and send it to the net. Puck, puck, puck, puck, make the pass to Bibi, assisted by Ti-Gusse. Take the puck and send it to the net. Take, take, take the puck, puck, puck, puck, puck, and send the puck to the net. It doesn’t take a bachelor’s degree: take the puck and wham! to the net. But for that, you must be in shape and have slept in the night. The link of trust that ties you to life: well done, quickly said, take the puck and ship it to the net with the collaboration of your little friends. Puck, puck, puck, like the grey hen who laid in the Church, and you send it to the net — quick said. It’s the brown hen who laid on the Moon: she laid a little egg for Titou who slept well, who takes the puck, puck, puck and sends it to the net. It’s the black hen who laid in the wardrobe, yesterday in the locker room: take the puck and be proud, and send it to the net.

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