Album: Warchild
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.