I Sing The Joy Of

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

Vienne La Nuit Sonne L'heure Les Jours S'en Vont Je Demeure

I Don't Want To Work. I Want To Smoke.

One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About Everywhere.