Last Spin on the Carousel

Last ticket, little one?

Climb on the golden mare.

I've spun this wheel ten thousand times,

sent kings and cowboys through the air.

Round and round and round we go — one more summer done.

The horses never get there.

That was never why they run.

Tomorrow I drape the canvas,

tomorrow the music sleeps.

The painted eyes stay open all winter — somebody has to dream

the place.

Round and round and round we go — one more summer done.

The horses never get there.

That was never why they run.

Mind the step, little one.

Tell your mother we open in May.

We always open in May.