| Over the mountains, and under the sky
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| Riding dirty gray horses, go you and I
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| Mating with chance, copulating with mirth
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| The sad-glad paymasters (for what it’s worth)
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| The ice-cream castles are refrigerated;
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| The super-marketeers are on parade
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| There’s a golden handshake hanging round your neck
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| As you light your cigarette on the burning deck
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| And you balance your world on the tip of your nose
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| Like a Sealion with a ball, at the carnival
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| You wear a shiny skin and a funny hat
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| The Almighty Animal Trainer lets it go at that
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| You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer’s gun
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| With you whiskers melting in the noon-day sun
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| You flip and you flop under the Big White Top
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| Where the long-legged ring-mistress starts and stops
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| But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin
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| As the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin
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| But you balance your world on the tip of your nose
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| You’re a Sealion with a ball at the carnival
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| Just a trace of pride upon our fixed grins
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| For there is no business like the show we’re in
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| There is no reason, no rhyme, no right
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| To leave the circus 'til we’ve said good-night
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| The same performance, in the same old way;
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| It’s the same old story to this Passion Play
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| So we’ll shoot the moon, and hope to call the tune
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| And make no pin cushion of this big balloon
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| Look how we balance the world on the tips of our noses
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| Like Sealions with a ball at the carnival |