| In the darkness of the night | 
| Only occasionally relieved by glimpses of Nirvana | 
| As seen through other people’s windows | 
| Wallowing in a morass of self-despair | 
| Made only more painful by the knowledge | 
| That all I am is of my own making | 
| When everything around me, even the kitchen ceiling | 
| Has collapsed and crumbled without warning | 
| And I am left, standing alive and well | 
| Looking up and wondering why and wherefore | 
| At a time like this, which exists maybe only for me | 
| But is nonetheless real, if I can communicate | 
| And in the telling and the bearing of my soul | 
| Anything is gained, even though the words | 
| Which I use are pretentious and make you cringe | 
| With embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim | 
| Who asked for an audience with the Dalai Lama | 
| He was told he must first spend five years in contemplation | 
| After the five years | 
| He was ushered into the Dalai Lama’s presence, who said | 
| 'Well, my son, what do you wish to know?' | 
| So the pilgrim said | 
| 'I wish to know the meaning of life, father.' | 
| So the Dalai Lama smiled and said | 
| 'Well my son, life is like a beanstalk, isn’t it?' | 
| Held close by that which some despise | 
| Which some call fake, and others lies | 
| And somewhat small, for one so tall | 
| A doubting Thomas who would be? | 
| It’s written plain for all to see | 
| For one who I am with no more | 
| It’s hard at times, it’s awful raw | 
| They say that Jesus healed the sick and helped the poor | 
| And those unsure believed his eyes | 
| A strange disguise | 
| Still, write it down it might be read | 
| Nothing’s better left unsaid | 
| Only sometimes, still no doubt | 
| It’s hard to see, it all works out | 
| 'Twas tea-time at the circus | 
| King Jimi, he was there | 
| Through hoops he skipped | 
| High wires he tripped | 
| And all the while the glare | 
| Of the baking, aching spotlights | 
| Beat down upon his cloak | 
| And though the crowd clapped furiously | 
| They could not see the joke | 
| 'Twas tea-time at the circus | 
| Though some might not agree | 
| As jugglers danced and horses pranced | 
| And clowns clowned endlessly | 
| But trunk to tail the elephants quite silent, never spoke | 
| And though the crowd clapped desperately | 
| They could not see the joke | 
| Yeah! | 
| Good one! | 
| In the autumn of my madness | 
| When my hair is turning grey | 
| For the milk has finally curdled | 
| And I’ve nothing left to say | 
| When all my thoughts are spoken | 
| Save my last departing birds | 
| Bring all my friends unto me | 
| And I’ll strangle them with words | 
| In the autumn of my madness | 
| Which in coming won’t be long | 
| For the nights are now much darker | 
| And the daylight’s not so strong | 
| And the things which I believed in | 
| Are no longer quite enough | 
| For the knowing is much harder | 
| And the going’s getting rough | 
| I know if I’d been wiser | 
| This would never have occurred | 
| But I wallowed in my blindness | 
| So it’s plain that I deserve | 
| For the sin of self-indulgence | 
| When the truth was writ quite clear | 
| I must spend my life amongst the dead | 
| Who spend their lives in fear | 
| Of a death that they’re not sure of | 
| Of a life they can’t control | 
| It’s all so simple really | 
| If you just look to your soul, yeah | 
| Some say that I’m a wise man | 
| Some think that I’m a fool | 
| It doesn’t matter either way | 
| I’ll be a wise man’s fool | 
| For the lesson lies in learning | 
| And by teaching I’ll be taught | 
| For there’s nothing hidden anywhere | 
| It’s all there to be sought | 
| And so if you know anything | 
| Look closely at the time | 
| At others who remain untrue | 
| And don’t commit that crime, yeah | 
| It’s all so simple really | 
| If you just look to your soul, yeah | 
| Instrumental |