This life is a fucking 3-ring circus

This life is a fucking 3-ring circus,

A ring for him, a ring for her and the last one for luck,
The acts, they begin but never seem to end, or end without any inkling or spark to show where they began,
The morbid clowns of the circus, they smile in a superficial grin, the happy ones only hop along in their naiveté,

The ringmaster directs the rope walkers to walk across their tight ropes, who, then fall, only to have their falls cushioned by giant nets, laid there, on the expectation of them falling,
The gigantic net waits for its prey, act after act, day after day, then gobbles these fallen horses, these freak 2-legged horses,

Those magnificent creatures on the flying trapeze, how they swing their life in the complete trust of it, their existence dependant on those who jumped before them or those who might come after, never alone, never individualistic,

The multi-colored, scantily-clad, show-offy, showgirls, of perfect thighs and wondrous eyes, dancing hourglasses in your ring, they disturb the sanctity of the ring and take attention away from the juggler or the queen,
They lead meagre lives of mild means, sit by the elephant parade and wait for their lions to come by one day, but instead the weasels con them into a ride,

The strong man and the flame blower take all the praise, but not for long, enter the international man of rubber or elastic, he now gets the ooh’s and aah’s,
None for the clown though, the common clown, the star of the circus, never does he get no stare nor frown,

Then suddenly, as dare devils induce feat after feat, and the damsels prance along on their feet, the clowns gather in a great sense of haste,
The net gives way and the ropists dive, everyone hopes the trapezists are alive,

A silent showgirl runs off with her lion,
The elephants stamp out the weasels cage and move on forth, toward the stage,
The audience shudders to the circus tents fall, but it is fortunately held up by the man who is 10-foot tall,
They gather around but I’m nowhere to be found,
Life takes its toll on the midget and the troll,
The flamist lives but the strong man is dead, rubber man melts, turning white hot from red,

The human cannon ball yells fire, aims outside and lights his fuse, but the 10-foot man and the tents construction, prove to be wiser to his ruse,
They gang up against him as a major obstruction, leading the speeding bullet to its ultimate destruction,

Now, as always, covered in darkness, having shot our only hope, engulfed in a pall that doesn’t begin to please me,
I cry out to the ringmaster, “This life is a fucking 3-ring circus… Release me!”