Is everyone ready?
And a one, two, three, four.
Autumn in New York and April in Paris are no longer chic.
Winters in Majorca and summers in Capri are gone,
so to speak.
The people who have the wherewithal
have found a new place to have a ball.
They've
deserted the Champs-Elysees.
They say their thanks
for Fairbanks,
Alaska.
April in Fairbanks,
there's nothing more appealing.
You feel your blood congealing.
It's April in Fairbanks.
Bright arctic moonlight illuminates the ice flows,
and everybody's breath shows it's April.
You've never known the charm of spring
until you hear a walrus sighing.
The air is perfumed with the smell of blubber frying.
April in Fairbanks,
you'll suddenly discover a polar bear's your lover in Fairbanks.
Heavenly weather will turn your skin
to leather and lock your jaws together.
It's April in Fairbanks.
North polar breezes will sing you a cadenza and bring you influenza
in Fairbanks.
I leave the Riviera
to the fools who want a fancy palace.
Give me an igloo.
The Aurora Borealis.
April in Fairbanks.
I simply can't believe it.
I know I'll never leave it alive.