| My name is Balthazar, impresario
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| And you’ll find me at the bottom of the page
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| I have artist’s hands, though I’m a working man
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| But my craft has been forgotten by the age
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| So tonight will be my last night on the stage
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| This is my family’s trade, my father built this place
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| At the turning of the twentieth century
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| I have been working here for some fifty years
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| But the young these days are glued to TV screens
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| And the old girl is dying on her feet
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| Once more to the boards
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| One more curtain call
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| Give the crowd everything they’re asking for and more
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| Always make them laugh
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| Try to make them cry
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| Always take the stage like it’s the last night of your life
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| My friends from theatre school all thought I was a fool
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| For leaving Shakespeare for the music hall
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| And now my son’s left home, and set out on his own
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| And the critics think we’re quaint but set to fall
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| But they’ve only seen the show from the stalls
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| And all the things I’ve seen behind these tattered seams
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| And all the upturned faces with the lamplight in their eyes
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| And each imperfect turn flickers as it burns
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| It only lasts a moment but for me they’ll never die
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| We are respected
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| We’re not remembered
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| We are the ghosts of Vaudeville
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| Unnumbered
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| We are the fathers of the halls
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| Yeah, but we’ll never be famous
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| We aren’t just artists, we are something more
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| We’re entertainers
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| I smooth my thinning hair in a gilded mirror
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| To try to hide the tell-signs of my age
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| My name is Balthazar, impresario
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| And tonight will be my last night on the stage |