Over the mountains, and under the sky-riding dirty grey horses,go you and I.
Mating with chance, copulating with mirth-the sad-glad playmasters (for what it's worth).
The ice cream castles are refrigerated:the super-marketeers are on parade.
There's a golden handshake hanging around your neck, as you light your cigarette on- the b-urning deck.
And you balance your worldpn the tipof your nose-like a Sealion with a ball, at the carnival.
You wear a shinyskin and a funny hat-the Almighy Animal Trainer lets it go at that, You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer's gun,with your whiskers melting in the noon-day sun.
You flip and you flop under the Big White Top wherethe long-legged ring mistress stars and stops.
But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin-as the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin.
But you balance the world on the tip of your nose-you're a Sealion with a ball, at the carnival.
Just a traceof pride upon our fixed grins-for there is no business like the show we're in.
There is no reason, no rhyme, no right to leave the circus 'til we've said good-night.
The same performance, in the same old way;it's the same old story to this Passion Play.
So we'll shoot the mooon, and hope to call the tune-and make no pin cushion of this big balloon.
Look how we balance the world on the tips of our noses,like Sealions with a ball, at the carnival.
