The Circus Is In Town

Come join the unraveling circus quite soon to be passing our way, with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us - line up as they lead us astray! Arriving, the elephant trumpets agendas of aberrant acts while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets and twirlers spin, twisting the facts. The big top’s now open to breezes, so pundits soar spreading their wings to convince us to tread the trapezes, for it's they who'll be pulling the strings. The merry-go-round’s so amazing (black horses bound, chasing the cart) as the brass ring of change wanders wildly till stealing straight back to the start. The moldy old model of Ptolemy (at the hub of this three ring domain) mixes marvels of magic with alchemy in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain. Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate, the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting of Circus Land once again great. The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery (pate garnished with fiery mane) has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary, keep millipede migrants in rein. The dwarves and their antics are funny while juggling to balance the books, so the titans laugh, grappling the money extracted by hook or by crooks. The sideshows provide a composite of fails of the frizzed billionaire, some disclosing the bones in his closet caught clutched in the arms of the bear. From towers the trumpet is blowing fake messages, fetid but full, but as long as the cattle keep lowing, he’ll hasten to serve them the bull. The masses, persuaded to follow, float foolishly into the fog overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow, choked up like the ruff-collared dog. The snap of the whip as it whooshes maintains the domains of the dupes so the cats won’t escape to the bushes, refusing to hop through the hoops. With the promise to call out the cavalry, the hearts of the crowds beat athrob for in spite of their struggles and rivalry the Don’s still controlling the mob. Humbled Empress on bareback’s hilarious, parading her asses and mules, with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious) wagging only the naive and fools. Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em through lobbies where influence crawls with her claws clinging tight to the totem while seals on the banks balanced balls. Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men, some wolfing their ways through the maze, while fey fables are hawked by the packmen who canvass our eyes with a glaze. The pretender defender of females is actu'ly one of the hawks; secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails means pillory, stuck in the stocks. The swine in the central arenas (immersed in the fat of the throne) begin dancing like wee ballerinas ’fore pitching the proles a bare bone. Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin' (dealt cards which were trumped by the Klan), ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’ and need for an armed Minuteman.” Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted (the gall’ry forbidding all bans) and the NRA gang’s become bloated shooting **** in the face of the fans. One day when the mad house has folded and sawdust’s been wafted aside, Human Race will be racing, remolded, surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.