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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