The slapstick troubadours are gone; the cotton candy fades.
The acrobats and teeter boards are naught but lonely shades.
The lions and the tigers and the pachyderms retreat.
The windjammers are silent; no parades go down the street.
No bleachers now for crowds to sit upon with green delight.
No more the trapeze artists in their stupefying flight.
For Ringling Brothers is no more; the big top is deceased.
And life’s a little flatter sans that fascinating yeast. 
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