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 the 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 the 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