There is no bar at the Circus.
Circuses have been family friendly since they cleaned up their image
In Victorian times, when they became nice, and respectable.
(Honest. Really. I mean, would a Circus LIE to you?)
What is this, some kind of sporting event
where you need the cushion of a few undercooled,
overwatered beers
to get properly angry
at the person
sitting next to you,
cheering for the team that’s full of Villains?
Certainly not.
What is this, normal everyday
Where you need the padding of liquid life-cleaner
To forget your day job?
What is this?
This is a Circus,
Or, as far as it’s concerned, THE Circus
(accept no substitutions;
They’re not the right size to fit, anyway,
Being boringly finite.
This is a Circus,
And it doesn’t need
The world’s longest contiguous bar,
Or hawkers, yelling the names of assorted
Barely-alcoholic beverages
In the direction of your ear.
And if you could duck behind a
Certain tent flap,
You can buy a pencil
For the cost of a drink;
And the drink is what
Absinthe would be,
If it were made by,
For,
And from
Faeries.
And it puts you into
A Faerietale
Which you could recognize,
If you really wanted,
As your Reality,
If everything in your Reality,
Had a bottle-glass Emerald Cityscape
Glow,
Like something out of a
Movie,
If movies could just
Break out of themselves
And into the more Implausible
Of potentialities.
And the virtues of this Elixir
Are not needful
To go into here,
Except to say that it doesn’t
Give you a Hangover;
It doesn’t need
To give you a Hangover;
Going back to the allegedly Real World
Is more than punishment
Enough;
But what else are you going to do,
Join the Circus?
