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 your 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