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Fairbanks, Alaska
About
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds
one is happy to be of service
Men are ugly at Nanterre,
Tis the fault of Voltaire;
And dull at Palaiseau,
Tis the fault of Rousseau.
I am not a notary,
Tis the fault of Voltaire;
I'm a little bird,
'Tis the fault of Rousseau.
Joy is my character,
Tis the fault of Voltaire;
Misery is my trousseau,
Tis the fault of Rousseau.
I have fallen to the earth,
Tis the fault of Voltaire;
With my nose in the gutter,
Tis the fault of . . .