Traveling Circus

I drove a car, belonging,/to a famous acrobat,/ he got out, arched his back. /Both feet hit the ground./Then he tells me-/If I win a passel of gifts on lottery ticket you claim a twelve tone television./But you’ll hear just nine sounds./As he adjusts the rosary/ that hangs from his neck, /we move towards his bumper car. /Mood music drifts from a balcony./My brother spent his money,/aiming across water,/at blue battered ducks on hinges. /Try keeping track of a midway crowd;/it’s a low level set of worries,/over pinwheels that flare in the breeze./To a tin whistle’s tune,/we pitched horseshoes all night.

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