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 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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