Three rings? Supply is greater than demand.

Reading about the circus I could stand.
Dreaming about the circus would be fine.
But I have no desire to stand in line.

Follow the crowd; I'll go my way alone.
Under the big top's not my comfort zone.

As jonquil to narcissus, monkey is to chimp.

But why split hairs? A spastic little imp
let’s call it, misbehaved, obnoxious, funky.
Compared to the idea of a monkey
a monkey disappoints. You catch a whiff.

The tiger's to be pitied, out of touch
with what you'd call his inner tiger if
you thought about it much.

But who can think at all where it's so loud?
Who can hear himself in such a crowd?

A circus peacock's attitude I hate.
Peacocks make it hard to concentrate.
Unprovoked, they fan out to full size
and show their hands, all jacks and queens, all eyes.
You feel like someone's staring at you, miffed
that you weren't staring first, agog, God's gift
to glamour right beneath your nose.
But I'm not interested in people's clothes.

What's so wonderful about the Armless
Wonder? What's the purpose of a clown?
Why does the lion look perfectly harmless,
tamer than his tamer, lying down?

It's worse than television!
                                             (Can that be?
What if you watch the circus on TV?)

Why the preponderance
of Slavic peoples riding the trapeze?
Their splintered vowels and hopeless consonants
fail to seize. They’re not so very agile.
They’re very fragile—
communiqués of grackles in bare trees.

The lady on the tightrope doesn't trust it.
The dromedary bares its teeth to yawn.
And yet the show goes on.
Must it?