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Clowns Galore (Therapy?)

Morning is yawning and out comes the sun With no choice but to light nothing new Opening eyes as the radio sighs Three chords and any old lies On to the sheets and maybe the streets I imagine as vibrant and shrill A comedy troupe of molecular soup Atoms chiming in time and in tune Give us circus and bread It keeps us happy But what do we do, now we are happy? Gorging on everything all of the time Passing it on to the brood Fattening kids for the future ahead In case we run out of food The audience roar and move in for the kill A spectacle threatening to spill They want it right now, but they want it low fat Expectancy drips down their chins Give us circus and bread It keeps us happy But what do we do, now we are happy?