About a freak show and how it met its end.
You’re a wannabe movie queen, with your hair all curled
And a magazine held up to obscure your face,
Sitting by the pie car in a folding chair by yourself
And little did I know, your daddy runs this freak show.
There’s a boy holding an umbrella to shield himself
From the wicked sun
A two-headed boy sitting on his stand, he’s gotten used to
Being gawked at
A girl with three mouths with which to play her kazoo
For the yelling crowd.
It smells like sawdust in the old tent, and the misery of
You say you hate the show and want to go where all the
Meet me by the pie car at midnight, that’s all the letter says.
I oblige and there you are again, sitting up rigid in
Your folding chair,
The moon casting you in silver to illuminate your
Between your fingers you pinch a book of matches,
And who can say no to you?
It was that we left in the morning, with the burning smell still
And the tent a memory behind us, shivering in the summer air
Maybe it would look like an accident, and maybe no one
Telling myself these things is the only way I can sleep at night.
We fled to the land of starlets and started up a new life
But even now, whenever I see a freak show advertised,
I have to count to three and close my eyes
To keep from remembering the paths that I’ve burned
And the smell of the pie car at midnight.