Dirty Circus

If it's a matter of time, I'm already late.
On every stick on my stage, there's a spinning plate.
But in this dirty circus,
if I can concentrate,
I can feel a slow motion,
a slow motion,
that tells me I'm alive.

The meals keep coming at me on conveyor-belt blues.
I've barely cleared up the plates when the next one's due.
But in this dirty circus,
if I can think of you,
I can feel a slow motion,
a slow motion,
that tells me I'm alive.

There are days when it seems
everyone else is free and having fun.
It's been a week now since I looked in the mirror,
to see what I've become.

The descant fury of mornings, the tenor afternoons,
relentless jumble of noises, devoid of tunes.
But in this dirty circus,
if I can crawl through the ruins,
I can feel a slow motion,
a slow motion,
that tells me I'm alive,
that tells me I'm alive,
that tells me I'm alive.