Sunday, 31 October 2021

Fr Zed on the BBC Podcast' Trying to Save the Latin Mass'

Fr Zed mentions the podcast, and adds an interesting observation about the song played toward the end of it.

From Fr Z's Blog

In that audio report there is, toward the end, a song by Georges Brassens called “Tempête dans un bénitier”. It is very French – as in “excuse my French” in its… expression of less than high regard for the liturgical changes and those who forced them.

Brassens was a writer for Le Figaro and a prodigious songwriter. He and countless others objected to the changes in the liturgy during the 60’s that were never asked for by the laity and were being shoved down everyone’s throats by their loving shepherds.   This dates from 1976.


Tempête dans un bénitier
Le souverain pontife avecque
Les évêques, les archevêques
Nous font un satané chantier
Ils ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
A la fête liturgique
Plus de grand’s pompes, soudain
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Plus de mystère magique
Le rite qui nous envoûte
S’avère alors anodin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Et les fidèl’s s’en foutent
O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin
Je ne suis pas le seul, morbleu
Depuis que ces règles sévissent
A ne plus me rendre à l’office
Dominical que quand il pleut
Il ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
En renonçant à l’occulte
Faudra qu’ils fassent tintin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Pour le denier du culte
A la saison printanière
Suisse, bedeau, sacristain
Sans le latin, sans le latin
F’ront l’églis’ buissonnière
O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin.
Ces oiseaux sont des enragés
Ces corbeaux qui scient, rognent, tranchent
La saine et bonne vieille branche
De la croix où ils sont perchés
Ils ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent
Tous ces fichus calotins
Sans le latin, sans le latin
La messe nous emmerde
Le vin du sacré calice
Se change en eau de boudin
Sans le latin, sans le latin
Et ses vertus faiblissent
A Lourdes, Sète ou bien Parme
Comme à Quimper Corentin
Le presbytère sans le latin
A perdu de son charme
O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de
Dieu, dites à ces putains
De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent
Sans le latin
Storm in a holy water font
The Sovereign Pontiff with that
Bishops, archbishops
Make us a damn construction site
They don’t know what they’re losing
All those damn hugs
Without Latin, Without Latin
Mass pisses us off
At the liturgical feast
No more big ceremonies, suddenly
Without Latin, Without Latin
No more magical mystery
The rite that captivates us
Then turns out to be harmless
Without Latin, Without Latin
And the faithful don’t care
O most Holy Mary mother of
God tell these whores
Of monks that they piss us off
Without latin
I’m not the only one, morbleu
Since these rules are rife
Not to go to the office anymore
Sunday only when it rains
They don’t know what they’re losing
All those damn hugs
Without Latin, Without Latin
Mass pisses us off
By renouncing the occult
They will have to do tintin
Without Latin, Without Latin
For the denarius of worship
In the spring season
Switzerland, verger, sacristan
Without Latin, Without Latin
The church will truant
O most Holy Mary mother of
God tell these whores
Of monks that they piss us off
Without Latin.
These birds are rabid
These crows that saw, trim, slice
The healthy and good old branch
From the cross where they are perched
They don’t know what they’re losing
All those damn hugs
Without Latin, Without Latin
Mass pisses us off
The wine of the sacred chalice
Changes into blood sausage
Without Latin, Without Latin
And its virtues are weakening
In Lourdes, Sète or Parma
As in Quimper Corentin
The presbytery without Latin
Has lost its charm
O most Holy Mary mother of
God tell these whores
Of monks that they piss us off
Without latin


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