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 Top

where 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 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 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.