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.
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