Авторы музыки: Ian Anderson
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 the 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 the 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.