| Tilt and whirl, rise and plummet
|
| Stalled in the sky and loved it
|
| Blacked out — the stars above the lot still shone on you
|
| Wired on raw good luck
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| We’ll never get far enough above
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| The sordid and sticky low-rent show that moves below
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| I’m finding my own way around
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| Our carnivalesque common ground
|
| When are the tents coming down?
|
| Savoring stale confections
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| And magically cheap concessions
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| To faith in a framework built to stand a test of days
|
| I can just smell the money;
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| A net beneath everything that falls
|
| Into the gap between love and pornography
|
| I’m finding my own way around
|
| Our carnivalesque common ground
|
| When are the tents coming down?
|
| The medicine show comes around
|
| To peddle a prescription now
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| To medicate mistrust of crowds
|
| The pitch coming on sickly proud
|
| There’s no way around
|
| There’s no way around
|
| And there’s no way the carnival tent’s coming down |