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.
We'll never get far enough above,
the sordid and sticky low-rent show that moves below.
I'm finding my own way around,
Our carnivalesque common ground.
When are the tents coming down?
Savoring stale confections,
and magically cheap concessions,
to faith in a framework built to stand a test of days.
I can just smell the money;
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,
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.
