You might think,
"Who's running this circus anyway?"
Oh baby, I know
that every midget wants to be an equestrienne,
but they have their own horseshit to deal with,
when the manager's assistant comes around
with ideas, after the show.
Look, I know it all seems random and hopeless at times,
but there are things you can depend on.
Doesn't Candy Cathy get hosed at every performance?
Kicked in her oversized pants?
Doesn't she always have to run after the little clown car
when her seventeen pals drive off without her?
And yet, she smiles.
Okay, I don't really like her, either.
The ringmaster doesn't send the peanut vendor out onto the high wire.
They don't trot out the ticket taker and say,
"Here, juggle these bowling pins while swallowing a flaming sword."
There aren't enough lozenges in the world, for that.
Similarly, you never see The Flying McFarquhars sweeping the stalls.
See where I'm going with this?
You're out there doing what you do, because you can.
Who's gonna take your place? Me?
I would, I really would, except that
you never want to swap and go train the tigers.
Oh, don't start with that face,
can you picture me as the contortionist?
There isn't enough Aleve in the world for that.
it was seeing you do your golliwog act that made me fall for you.
No fooling. No net!
Those faces out there may look like just so many cream pie targets,
but they are watching you.
Little girls go home and dream of being you,
not some dumb equestrienne.
So trot your happy ass out there. Yes, again.
Let the show go on, here tonight,
then on to who-knows-where
by blind faith