La Soupe aux choux

The village was a village of the Bourbonnais.
As this discrete Bourbonnais hadn't carved for itself a war name in history,
like Alsace or Lorraine,

it was mistaken, for instance, for Burgundy
just as, long ago, Piraeus (Greek port) was mistaken for a man,
and my aunt's pendants for my uncle's.
In short, the village was the worse for it.
To put it bluntly, back on white,
there was nothing left in the village, less than nothing.
Or, rather, yes...
There still survived, by hook or by crook,
in the hamlet of Les Gourdiflots,
two exotics, two fossils from the dawn of time,
two pathetic creatures.
The first of these Last of the Mohicans,
of these tanned, wine-soaked dried fruits,
of these curiosities from another time,
rejected by technology and even the combustion engine,
the first, then, of these two Druids of the wine goblet
was called Francis Chérasse,
nicknamed Le Bombé (the bulgy one)
for the hunch that endowed his features.