| Isn't it rich? | |
| Are we a pair? | |
| Me here at last on the ground, | |
| You in mid-air. | |
| Send in the clowns. | |
| Isn't it bliss? | |
| Don't you approve? | |
| One who keeps tearing around, | |
| One who can't move. | |
| Where are the clowns? | |
| Send in the clowns. | |
| Just when I'd stopped opening doors, | |
| Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours, | |
| Making my entrance again with my usual flair, | |
| Sure of my lines, | |
| No one is there. | |
| Don't you love farce? | |
| My fault I fear. | |
| I thought that you'd want what I want. | |
| Sorry, my dear. | |
| But where are the clowns? | |
| Quick, send in the clowns. | |
| Don't bother, they're here. | |
| Isn't it rich? | |
| Isn't it queer, | |
| Losing my timing this late | |
| In my career? | |
| And where are the clowns? | |
| There ought to be clowns. | |
| Well, maybe next year. |
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