SeaLion
Over the mountains, and under the sky ---riding dirty gray horses, go you and I.Mating with chance, copulating with mirth ---the sad-glad paymasters (for what it's worth).The ice-cream castles are refrigerated;the super-marketeers are on parade.There's a golden handshake hanging round your neck,as you light your cigarette on the burning deck.And you balance your world on the tip of your nose ---like a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.You wear a shiny skin and a funny hat ---the Almighty Animal Trainer lets it go at that.You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer's gun,with you whiskers melting in the noon-day sun.You flip and you flop under the Big White Topwhere the long-legged ring-mistress starts and stops.But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin ---as the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin.But you balance your world on the tip of your nose ---you're a SeaLion with a ball at the carnival.Just a trace of pride upon our fixed grins ---for there is no business like the show we're in.There is no reason, no rhyme, no rightto 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 moon, 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.
Printable Version