Where do circus bears go to retire?
Mental arthritis slows my dance steps and
The bosses keep cutting the size of the ring
Curse me whenever’s the audience’s small
I feel time catch me like a fish
Slapping me in a muddy tin bucket
Good thing I like damp cold
Though not so much inside my head
My brain is tired but my worries are fresh
Fears of ringmasters, hunters, false tents
My sleep gate-crashed by dreams of steel chains
Wrapped in tight rings round my legs
I stumble as I rise to dance
And these people look like bears
So is there a crowd-donor for this old joker?
I need a patron and I need one now
Maybe the bears’ home takes Social Security;
Hibernation never looked this good and
I want a place where they know when to clap